


Going For Broke

by SashMumbles



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Artist!Ian, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gallavich, Gallavich AU, Love, M/M, New York City, Romance, Sexual Content, Sickness, WallStreet!Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:48:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 83,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashMumbles/pseuds/SashMumbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Milkovich is a stockbroker, it’s not necessarily who he wants to be but his job keeps his parents happy, a roof over his head and enables him to live a lifestyle that he’s become easily accustomed to. One day, after a particularly hard day on Wall Street, Mickey stops at a bar on the way home for a drink. Whilst sitting in a booth, a stranger approaches (later known as Ian Gallagher, artist and enigma), offering Mickey a beer. As it turns out, accepting the beer from said stranger is both the best and stupidest decision Mickey has ever made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A beer's a beer, right?

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally a fic written by my friend letters_of_stars a couple years ago for another fandom. She was lovely enough to give me permission to rewrite it into the Gallavich universe after I explained how the idea of Ian and Mickey in her story wouldn't leave my mind.  
> Basically all the writing magic is letters_of_stars and I have just made it part of our kickass Gallavich fandom.  
> Here is her original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181

It is not Mickey’s usual habit to stop for a drink, but the stock market has chosen this particular day to trip him, kick him a few times in the ribs, liberally use the baseball bat and spit on his Armani suit for good measure. So it is with weary and slightly short-tempered disposition that Mickey Milkovich makes his way into Plonk Bar, the most expensive and perhaps most unfortunately named establishment in the neighborhood.

Mickey doesn’t even bother heading straight for the counter; instead, he finds a small table tucked away in a dimly lit corner, far from any other patrons. He doesn’t need companionship. He drops his briefcase with a thud, wincing when he remembers his laptop is in there, and sinks into the booth, burying his head in his folded arms.

He is so busy listing the reasons to commit hari-kari over plummeting stocks that he doesn’t hear the stranger approach until he has sat down across from him and cleared his throat. Mickey raises his head, startled, only to be met by the sight of soft green eyes, murky in the low light.

“Need a drink?” The man ignores Mickey’s shock and slides a glass across the table, leaving a wet trail behind on the wood. “Of course, I wasn’t sure what you wanted, but hell—a beer’s a beer, right?”

“Um…right.” Mickey takes the drink, lifts it to his mouth without actually swallowing and stares at his new companion through the foggy glass. Messy ginger hair (which for some unknown reason has specks of blue in it), slightly pale skin, wearing tight jeans and a knit sweater—certainly not the usual uptown bar customer. He has a purple sharpie tucked behind one ear, and heavy smears of charcoal on his face. He looks younger, around Mickey’s own age, and he moves his shoulders every few seconds as if trying to work out a kink in his back. He’s fucking gorgeous too, not that Mickey spends much time gaping at the way his neck disappears into the taunting looseness of his collar, or the high set of his cheekbones.

“My shoes cost twenty-five bucks, by the way. On sale. Are you done?” The man smiles, only slightly mocking, and Mickey lowers his glass sheepishly. “I didn’t spike it or anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Then why give it to me?” Mickey asks. He has no obligation to be polite to a stranger, after-all. The man shrugs, hands curling around his own tall glass of amber liquid. “Looked like you could use it, and weren’t planning on ordering any time soon.”

Mickey frowns, and takes a small sip of the beer. It tastes normal, or at least not extraordinarily different. “Still…why?”

“Why a random act of kindness for a complete stranger?” The man shrugs again. “Maybe I wanted to be an anomaly. Break the mold.”

Mickey ‘hmms’ and takes another sip. That can’t be it. People don’t work like that. He tries to study the man once again, more surreptitiously through his eyelashes. But he’s watching Mickey right back, the beginnings of a smirk spreading across his impish face.

“Or maybe…” the stranger continues, “I want to somehow atone for something I’ve done. Maybe I killed someone. Stole from an old lady. Kicked a puppy. And I’m just trying to balance out the karma.”

“Maybe you’re just trying to fuck up my head even more,” Mickey grumbles, but he can’t stop his own smile. Just who is this person?

“There’s that.” The man laughs easily before lifting his glass and taking a large gulp of his drink. He thumps the glass back down and presses his lips together. “Actually, truth be told, I came into a bit of money recently, and wanted to see if rich beer somehow tastes better than the dirt-cheap crap. And you know what?” He makes a face. “It doesn’t.” He frowns, pushes the drink away, and props his chin up on his hands, studying Mickey’s face in a way that makes the other squirm. “Tell me, why did you bother becoming rich if the beer is all piss anyway?”

“What?” Mickey asks, startled by the question.

“Just wondering,” the man says, still staring. “I’ve always had a fascination with the idea of wealth, for obvious reasons. It just seems sort of pointless really. I mean, yes, having a steady paycheck would be a definite bonus in my life, but after that…it just seems like money would get in the way. And where do you even spend it all? Seems like a huge waste of time, waste of energy, for something that you don’t really need, not if you live right. So why bother?”

“I…” Mickey stops. Why did he bother becoming rich? He takes another sip of beer to buy himself time, because despite the other man’s opinion, it still tastes like a normal beer to Mickey. But the extra moment doesn’t help. He can’t answer. He doesn’t know.

Why be rich?

Because his parents had taught him that’s what he was supposed to do?

The stranger gives a small, understanding sigh when Mickey remains silent, lips pouting in a way Mickey should not find as attractive as he does. “You know that’s the thing. No one I talk to ever seems to know the answer to that question.” Mickey feels an odd spark of jealousy at the idea of him doing this with other people, other men. But the stranger is right here, talking to Mickey when he continues. “It just seems to me that dressing in a starched suit every morning and spending your day sitting in an office watching numbers on a ticker would be a one way ticket to a glass of cyanide, but then again that’s just me.” He traces patterns in the table with one long finger. “But that’ll be why you’re here right now, guess. Drinking a less concentrated form of cyanide.”

Mickey lifts one eyebrow and his mouth jerks into a small grin. He’s never met someone like this before, so blunt. They’re not like that, not where he works. And, beyond everything else, it’s rather true, now that Mickey comes to think about it. Starched suits every day, cubicles, fingers sore from banging on keys. Nobody at work ever complains about it, and his family is supportive, but suddenly…it all seems sort of boring. Pointless. “Just who are you?”

“Me?” The boy’s hand pauses. “I’m just some random twenty-something bar goer who likes engaging random people in economics discussions. Nothing special. Who are you?” He surprises Mickey then by swinging his body around sideways and drawing his knees up to his chest, hunkered in the booth like a spry woodland fairy, eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Rich family? I bet so. Did your daddy want you to become a big business man? I’m sorry. It’s tough to live up to those kinds of expectations.”

The tone of his voice is more revealing than his words. “What were your expectations?” Mickey asks, setting aside his glass. The question allows him to avoid the truth in the man’s statement. Did your _daddy_ …

The man rolls his eyes and sighs. “Oh. You know…the usual.” Mickey opens his mouth to reply but doesn’t have the chance before the other man has started talking again and managed to steer the conversation away from himself once more.

“So, you got a family?”

“No,” Mickey says, shrugging off his suit jacket. “Not yet.”

“I figured.” He raises an eyebrow when Mickey stares, pointing at his own left hand and wiggling his finger. “No wedding ring. And guy like you, you’re proper. You’d put a ring on it first.”

“Maybe I’m divorced,” Mickey says, trying to catch him off guard, be on top for once. This is almost frightening, being steered like this.

“Yeah, I guess. Oops.” He doesn’t sound apologetic. It doesn’t do Mickey any good being right if the man doesn’t fight against it.

Usually that’s all people do. Fight and fight and fight until they’re exhausted and can’t possibly function anymore. But to…admit that he might be wrong, yet not seem to care…

“Significant other, at least?”

“What?” Mickey snaps back to the present.

“I asked if you have a person of significance, preferably of the ‘other’ variety,” the stranger explains, hand returning to the water on the table.

“Oh.” Mickey pauses, frowns, and decides there’s no point in lying, really. “No.”

“Hmm. That’s a pity.” The man runs a hand through his blue-streaked hair. It looks almost like paint, though Mickey can’t tell in this lighting.

“Why?” Mickey asks, taking another drink. He’s half hoping for a flirty response here.

The stranger shrugs. “Well…not having someone. Sounds difficult. Working all day being a faceless pencil pusher in an office, and then going home to an empty home. It would be very lonely, I imagine. I’m sorry.”

Strangers aren’t supposed to say stuff like that. They aren’t supposed to pity you.

It’s unnerving. It throws Mickey off balance, and he doesn’t know how to react. He feels weak, fragile, and he hates it. He hates it because his life really is nothing—just numbers, tickers, and endless lonely nights—and this complete stranger can tell so easily, and just reduced it to the nothingness it is within a matter of moments by being so alien, so different.

For the first time in his _entire life_ , Mickey has no idea what to do. And he’s jealous. He’s jealous of this boy sitting with his feet up on the seat with smudges of charcoal on his cheeks and twenty-five dollar shoes. He’s jealous because he wishes he could be like that, easy and smiling and care-free.

Why does his life suddenly seem like such a friggin’ mess compared to this man? It’s all completely pointless, isn’t it?

Isn’t it? Realization hits hard.

He needs to take back some control. Mickey stares at the boy across from him, wanting hoping needing to prove to him that Mickey is worthwhile, that he’s something other than a soulless modern machine. He needs to make this boy care, watch him fall apart and become human and vulnerable with gentle caresses and lips on skin and Mickey doesn’t even know if this man’s like that, but Mickey has been out since ninth grade and suddenly something so trivial as possibility doesn’t seem important. He needs it. He needs him.

But he can’t. Because he doesn’t even know this person’s name, and those are not acceptable thoughts to have about a stranger.

But even as Mickey comes to this realization, the man’s feet are back on the ground, and he’s standing up, leaving his barely-touched drink behind. “God, that was some bad beer. See you around, Dapper Dan.” He begins to walk away back to the bar, rolling his shoulders as he moves and tapping a rhythm against his thigh. As if this doesn’t matter. As if Mickey doesn’t matter, as if he’s just another face, another memory, another stepping stone. And Mickey can’t accept that. Images flash into his head—of this boy waiting for him when he gets home from work, eating dinner with him, falling asleep with gentle breath on Mickey’s face, somehow turning all the nothingness into something and it’s so tangible Mickey can taste it. He gapes for a moment, shocked by the sudden onslaught of desire, before standing up and scurrying after him.

“Wait!”

He turns back with an amused smile. “What? Did I forget something?”

“Yeah. I want your number,” Mickey says, forcing the words out before his own cowardice and common sense can suck them back down.

“Why?” He laughs. “I’m just some guy.”

“I want to talk to some guy again then. Someone not like me.” _Someone who can show me I’m not worthless. That I matter._

_Someone that I can maybe create something out of nothing with._

The stranger bites his lip, rolls his shoulders, and stares at Mickey for a moment before cocking his head to one side. “Fine,” he says. “Gimme your hand.”

Mickey reaches out a hand unthinkingly, and before he can pull away the man has pulled the sharpie out from behind his ear and scrawled across Mickey’s skin.

“Hey!” Mickey yanks his hands back and glares at the purple now stained onto it.

“What? It’s my number.” He recaps the pen and smiles. “I’ll be expecting you to call then.”

“It’s Mickey!” Mickey blurts out. “My name’s Mickey.”

“Good for you.” He laughs again, before his face straightens, takes on a pondering expression. “Well, see you later Mickey. Have fun watching your Wall Street ticker.”

He spun around and pushed at the door, Converse slipping on the smooth tiles of the bar for just one moment before he’s gone.

Mickey glances down at his hand, and then glances again.

Instead of numbers, all that’s there are a bunch of pointless doodles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars


	2. Candy Bars and Milkshakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MARRIAGE EQUALITY IN ALL US STATES Y'ALL!!  
> 

Mickey doesn’t see the stranger again, not when he goes back to the bar the next night, or the next week even, night after night of drinking down his endless anxieties. It hurts to think about. Think about him, think about what he said, revealed. And soon Mickey forces himself to stop trying to find him again and focus solely on the alcohol.

 _Why do you even care?_ he asks himself. _It’s just some kid who committed vandalism on your hand. Why are you letting this upset you so much? Why should you care what he thinks?_

But something about the stranger continues to tug at his mind, throwing images onto his retinas—those murky green eyes flashing in the light, the mess of hair, the charcoal shadows across his cheekbones. And at first he tries to tell himself that it’s simply the mystique, the way the man chewed up his life and threw it back up in Mickey’s face that has captured his thoughts.

But it’s more than that, he knows. He knows it when he wakes up gasping, mouth struggling to form a name that he doesn’t even know. But it doesn’t matter, because the stranger has disappeared with all his enigmatic energy, and Mickey will never see him again. He drinks to that. He drinks hard to that. Because if there’s one thing he realized that night, it’s that he doesn’t live anything worthwhile.

But that’s a good thing, he tells himself. Because that way when he drinks, he’s not really destroying anything at all. And it’s so much easier to drink, now that’s he’s gotten into the habit. It’s so much easier not to have to deal.

 _And why would I want him anyway?_ Mickey asks himself, after a few weeks of letting the alcohol steal his hours away. Why would he want him? Strolling into Mickey’s life, unraveling it, picking at his choices, his job, his history, and forcing the truth onto Mickey when he never asked for it? He was happier before.

He falls back into work, tumbling through weeks, no, months of watching numbers, scanning computer screens, and watching as the market falls to pieces around him and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. None of the economists predicted this, and, to most, it’s not even a dip in markets compared to what they’ve endured in the past forty years, but for Mickey, who’s only experiencing his first recession, however minor, it leads to endless headaches and many, many more nights surrounded by empty shot glasses, because it’s so much easier when he can just forget. One level of his consciousness tells him he has a problem, that he has probably misplaced most of the blood in his body for beer, tells him that’s it’s beginning to show in the dark circles under his eyes and shadows of his face, but he drowns that part with alcohol until it shuts up as well.

November arrives, bitter with wind, and Thanksgiving is spent with a five dollar microwave meal. He can’t face going home right now, no matter how much his sister pleads. Christmas passes much the same way, with Kraft macaroni and cheese, some new socks, a photo album that promises to be empty forever, and a new plummet in stocks that has Mickey back at work the next day, frantically trying to shift the numbers and avoid what’s sure to come.

He almost escapes going out with Iggy and Joey on New Year’s, but in the end their promise of personally invading his apartment with ten thousand cats is threat enough. So, at nine fifteen, December 31st, 2018, Mickey locks the door of his apartment and makes his way down seventeen flights of stairs to catch a cab to Times Square. He’s supposed to meet Iggy and Joey at eleven, but he knows traffic will be murder, and then, if there’s time, he’s memorized the location of several nice bars around the area to drop into.

The cab drive is lengthy, to say the least. Once the taxi actually breaches the area around Times Square, the road blocks and, moreover, swarms of people actually convince Mickey that the best thing to do is get out now and walk the rest of the way. He pays the cabbie and steps out into the stream of people, battering his way into a side road and into a shady looking place. The sign above the door says  ‘Rocco’s’, which should be off-putting enough, but Mickey has found over the last few months of his life that a beer is beer, no matter how much it costs, and no matter what certain strangers might have to say about it.

There’s generic rock playing in the background, buried beneath the uproar of voices. It’s packed of course, on New Year’s Eve, people seated around booths and tables with their friends, drinking and laughing and generally enjoying life. The bar counter, which Mickey has found actually incredibly convenient due to the proximity of drink, is nearly empty but for an older man staring pensively at his mug. Mickey sits down one of the torn, swiveling stools and raises his hand for a mug. The bartender takes one look before sliding across a glass of some unknown alcoholic substance, right past the unresponsive nose of the older man, not even bothering to ask what Mickey might want. Mickey is just glad it arrives fast—he doesn’t particularly care what oblivion tastes like anymore. He raises it to his mouth.

And suddenly a slim hand is on his, forcing the drink back down to the bar-top, and he’s there, staring with concern into Mickey’s eyes. “I think you’ve had enough bad beer man.”

There’s yellow paint spattered across his nose, like dandelions before they’ve erupted into cotton.

“What are you doing here?” Mickey asks stupidly.  
The stranger rolls his eyes, somehow blue this time in a way that perplexes Mickey to no end. “I’m stopping you from being an idiot, Dapper Dan. You don’t need that drink—trust me.”

“I’m not even drunk!” Mickey protests, even as paint stained fingers pry his own away from the mug.

“No, but I can recognize the face of man who’s planning on changing that. Come on.” A hand hooks under his elbow, dragging him up.

“Hey!” the bartender shouts from behind them, gesturing at Mickey’s drink. “You planning on paying for this then, Gallagher?”

“Nope. Keep the change!” the man (Gallagher, what kind of name is Galllagher?) shoots back over his shoulder, before he leads Mickey out the back door and into the back-alley. It’s not as dirty back here as some would say—the trash is all stored in neat plastic bags, piled up against the brick wall, and light from apartments above the bar casts the entire place into a glow. It’s quieter, with only the sounds of city life filtering in with small bursts of sounds: muffled laughter, a car honk, what sounds like illegal fireworks being set off from the top of some building far away. Specks of snow are littering the ground, floating in the air and catching on skin, clothes, eyelashes.

The man, Gallagher, drops his grip on Mickey’s arm and sits down on the pavement, drawing his knees up to his chin. Mickey gapes down at him, not sure how to react. Hummel glances up at him, and reaches out to pat the pavement welcomingly.

“Pull up some cement.”

Mickey frowns and obeys, shifting uncomfortably on the cold ground. Gallagher smiles warmly— and he still has that damned sharpie behind his ear, Mickey notes—before closing his eyes and leaning back against the building, arching it out and groaning as it cracks. He opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, catching the snow as it falls.

“What are you doing?” Mickey asks.

Gallagher grins, and, eyes still closed, begins to sing quietly, “If all the snowflakes were candy bars and milkshakes…”

Just who is this person? One moment he’s some boy in a bar, handing Mickey free beer and slowly unraveling his life better than anyone else ever had, next he’s a child singing nursery songs.

“What’s your name?” Mickey asks quietly. The other man opens his eyes and blinks softly, the snowflakes on his eyelashes leaving kisses of water on his skin as he does so.

“Ian,” he says finally. “I’m Ian Gallagher. And you’re Mickey.”

“Ian,” Mickey repeats, tasting the name on his tongue.

“Very good,” Ian teases lightly. “Now, oblige me. Did the fact that all beer tastes like piss finally get to you? Is that why you’re trying to kill yourself with it?”

“I’m not trying to kill myself with it!” Mickey protests.

“Oh please,” Ian scoffs. “I’ve lived long enough to know how a man looks when he’s done nothing but drink for three months straight. What broke you? Still the little Wall Street tickers?”

Mickey wants to say yes, blame it all on the little numbers on his screen, on rising prices and plummeting stocks, but he knows that’s not everything.

What broke him? He’s twenty-four years old, pledged his life to numbers and books and business, never been in love, never had an adventure, never been enough for himself, never been enough for his parents.

Life broke him. And it took a five minute conversation in a bar three and half months ago for him to realize it.

“Little Wall Street tickers,” he tells Ian anyway.

“Hmm.” Ian rubs a hand over his face, smearing the little yellow spots of paint across his nose.

“You know there are better ways to deal with that than alcohol. I never would have bought you a drink if I knew you didn’t think so.”

“And what ways are those?” Mickey asks.

Ian glances over at him, tangling his fingers into his hair and pressing his lips together. Finally, he presses his hands to his knees and stands. He rolls his shoulders once before turning his head to smirk at Mickey. “Come on Dapper Dan.”

“Wait, what?” Mickey shrinks back.

“I said come on. I’m showing you alternatives.” Ian sighs and holds out his hand to drag Mickey upright. He lets go immediately and makes his way down the alley, pausing once to make sure Mickey is following.

“Where are we going?” Mickey questions as Ian heads out of the alley into a relatively empty street, save for a few teenagers hanging out on a doorstep passing around a cigarette in the snow. The buildings here are dilapidated, so different from Mickey’s upscale neighborhood.

“Somewhere alternative,” Ian answers vaguely. He grins and calls out to the teenagers. “Still productive as always then Fry?”

“Fuck off Gallagher!” one boy shouts, laughing and waving them away. The others join in, catcalling and laughing as Ian shoots back a few insults with flair and a few choice phrases, taking Mickey with him further down the street all the while until they can’t hear the teens anymore over the generic city noise.

Ian slings a set of keys out of his jacket pocket and skips up some crumbling stone steps to a faded red door, set deep into the brick. The paint is peeling in large strips, and the windows are chipped and cracked. Ian shoves the keys into the lock, twists harshly, and throws his weight against the door, forcing his way inside. A lump of accumulated snow falls from the top onto his head, sprinkling his face and shoulders with sparkling dust. He laughs and steps through inside. He pokes his head back out and beckons to Mickey. “Well?”

“Follow a stranger into an unknown building?” Mickey raises his eyebrows.

Ian smirks. “But I’m not a stranger. I’m Ian Gallagher. There. Come on.” He disappears.

Mickey hesitates for a moment before following. He doesn’t think Ian is dangerous, not really, but the situation is very odd nevertheless. But again, nothing about Ian Gallagher has been normal.

The hallway inside is plastered with paper—newspapers, various wallpapers, what looks like pages torn out of textbooks, and…paintings. Mickey stops just inside the doorway and stares in awe at  the mirage surrounding him. Paintings of sunsets, horses, of Greek gods and goddesses, of dying flowers, of storms, of people…

Ian shoves the door shut behind him with a grunt of exertion. “Damn thing.”

“Did you…did you paint all these?” Mickey asks, standing on his toes and checking the signature sprawled along the bottom right-hand corner of a painting of a broken clamshell. ‘Ian G’ it says, in purple writing.

“Yup. Now come on.” Ian doesn’t leave Mickey time to linger. He dances off down the hall, the movement sending papers fluttering on the walls, held in place by flimsy staples and pushpins.

“You did _all_ of this?” Mickey gasps, when they come into a larger room, complete with a rundown sofa, eighties T.V set propped up on a stack of encyclopedias, and hundreds more paintings tacked to the walls. Ian shrugs and moves past it all into a small kitchen set-up, all aged white appliances and even more paintings covering every available space.

“Yeah. My housemates hate me for it.” Ian flicks on a single lamp in the corner. It casts a dull glow over the room.

“Your housemates?”

“Of course. Didn’t think I could afford to live here on my own, did you?” Ian fixes him with an exasperated look and snatches an old blue kettle off the stove and fills it with dirty looking water from the tap. There are two doors set in the one wall, almost blending into the wall due to the art hung there as well.

Mickey thinks that an apartment this rickety should only cost about five bucks a month at most, and that would be overcharging, but doesn’t comment. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, only now just realizing that several of the paintings are of naked men and women. It makes him feel like a twelve year old stuck in sex education class all over again.

“You’re lucky Maya’s out,” Ian calls. He puts the water onto boil, looks back to Mickey and frowns. “You can just sit, you know.”

Mickey brushes crumbs off the sofa, slings his jacket over the back, and sits. “Who’s Maya?”

Girlfriend?

“The devil,” Ian answers simply. “Do you want tea or coffee?”

“Um…coffee please.”

Ian walks out of the kitchen and joins Mickey on the couch, his weight making the entire thing cave in and tilting them towards each other. “So,” he says, “How do you want to do this?”

“What?” Mickey shifts away, mind immediately plummeting to the gutter.

“Your stress relief,” Ian explains, and Mickey wonders if he knows just how much he’s messing with Mickey’s mind. “How do you…”

He takes a look at Mickey’s perplexed face and sighs. “Wait here. I’ll be back. If the kettle starts to boil over, just…throw it in the sink or something.”

“Okay…”

Ian grins and catapults himself off the couch, heading for one of the doors on the side of the room. He opens it a crack and Mickey sees the stairs, narrow and dark, heading up. Ian disappears, and Mickey is left alone, save for the growing whistle of the kettle.

Suddenly there’s loud bang from the hallway, and a woman’s voice shouting in Spanish into the street. Mickey leaps to his feet just before she stomps into the room, raven hair falling around her shoulders. She takes one look at him, and strides over to the wall, thumping several times. Her fist damages the paint on several of the paintings. “’Ian!”

“What?” Ian’s voice echoes from up the stairs.

“Could you not leave your fuck toys lying around the house?”

“He’s not a fuck toy!” Ian replies in a sing-song voice.

“Well then what the hell is he?” she yells, ignoring the way Mickey is gaping at her with shock.

“A client.” Ian thumps back down the stairs, arms struggling to hold the mess of papers and supplies he’s brought with him.

She cocks an eyebrow. “You’re a whore now?”

“Shut up Maya,” he tells her, an almost affectionate tone in his voice. He glances at Mickey and grins. “This is Maya. Maya, this is Mickey from Wall Street.”

“Kinky,” she says, and Ian’s foot lashes out to kick her shin lightly.

“Scoot. Back to your lair.”

“Fine,” she huffs, and leans in to kiss his cheek. “Have fun.” A leering wink at Mickey, and then she’s heading up the stairs, closing the door after her.

“Sorry about that,” Ian says, dumping his pile of things to the floor and shrugging his shoulders a few times as if to work out kinks. “Now…let’s get started.”

Mickey frowns. “But…what exactly am I doing?”

“You’re painting!” Ian tells him in a bright tone.

Oh. That wasn’t exactly what Mickey had had in mind.

Ian drops to his knees and spreads the paper—no, not paper, it’s canvas—out on the floor, and Mickey sees that he’s also brought down at least a score of paint tubes and abused brushes. “Whenever I get stressed out over something I find it helps to paint my feelings or thoughts,” Ian explains, not looking up as he arranges the paint in order of hue. Mickey glances at the hundreds of paintings on the walls and doesn’t say a word. Ian seems too light-hearted to get stressed out that much.

“Okay, come here,” Ian orders him. Mickey sits down next to him on the floor.

“Don’t you have an easel or something?” he asks.

Ian laughs. “Oh hell no. I’m lucky to have paint and something to paint on. Floor works just fine. In fact…” He glances at Mickey side-eyed and smirks before reaching out and snatching the brushes off the floor. “I think fingers will work just fine as well.”

“Wha—no!” Mickey protests, trying to steal one of the brushes out of Ian’s hand, but Ian is up and dancing across the room, grabbing the kettle off the stove just as it begins to whistle. He nabs two cups from by the sink (Mickey hopes they’re clean) and pauses.

“Wait…did you say tea or coffee?”

“Coffee but…”

“Coffee. Right. It’s gonna be instant, sorry to tell you.”

“That’s fine but Ian…”

“Mickey.” Ian turns around and fixes him with a stare, kettle in one hand and packet of instant coffee in the other. “Would you just trust me already? Jesus…”

Mickey can’t hold it in any longer. “Why would I trust you? I asked for your number and all you gave me was a bunch of stupid squiggles!”

“Fuck.” Ian sets everything down and crosses back to Mickey, sitting cross-legged beside him. “You still worked up about that?”

“I just don’t understand why you didn’t just give me your number,” Mickey grumbles, petulant and he knows it. He can’t help but wonder if things would have been different if he’d been able to call Ian the next day, talk to him, get Ian to show him how to deal, how to understand why life suddenly seemed so damn pointless.

Ian sighs. “Look man, I just didn’t see any point in me screwing up your life anymore. You seemed a little…weirded out by me, and I didn’t want to make you deal with that.” He frowns. “Actually, no. Scratch that. I didn’t want to have to deal with it. Totally selfish reasons. End of story.” He pats Mickey’s knee and stood back up, heading for the kitchen to make the coffee. Mickey rubs his eyes tiredly and pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time. Quarter after ten. He still has time before he has to meet Iggy and Joey.

“Perk up, Wall Street.” A mug of coffee is shoved into his hands and Ian flops back down beside him, spreading out a piece of canvas and uncapping a few of the paints. “Right. So, what you want to do is just take a bit of paint on your fingers. It’s acrylic, so not too hard to wash out of skin, but try not to get it in your eyes, okay? That sucks.”

“Why don’t you just use regular finger paint?” Mickey asks.

“Guy I know gives me a real good deal on acrylic,” Ian explains, squeezing some blue onto his middle finger and inspecting it critically. “I also convinced him to sell me the crappy canvas for half off. If he ever goes out of business, I am royally screwed. No way could I afford this otherwise.”

He squints at the canvas, reaches out with his free hand, and takes a sip of coffee. Finally, he reaches out and brushes his finger down the canvas in feathering strokes, smearing the paint between all his fingers and using his pinky to add refined lines. Mickey stares. Ian is remarkably adept with his hands, the small whirls and glides on the paper creating effortless shapes. A person begins to materialize on the page—or rather, the idea of a person, all the movement and expression captured in the lines without ever giving into detail. Ian takes another drink and adds a few more lines with the broad brush of his thumb before sitting back and absentmindedly running his paint smeared hand through his hair, leaving streaks of blue behind. No wonder he’s always so messy when Mickey sees him. “Right. Your turn,” he tells Mickey, turning and grinning at him.

Mickey reaches out and grabs the tube of orange. He remembers hearing his high school art teachers talk about complimentary colors, and if he remembers correctly, orange and blue were one such pair.

“Wait.” Ian stays his arm with his clean hand. “You’re not in an orange mood.”

“What?”

Ian raises an eyebrow at him as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “This is all about self-expression and getting your feelings out, remember? Finding ways to deal with stress without having to murder your liver? If you don’t use the colors you’re feeling, then it doesn’t do any good. And I seriously doubt that you’re orange right now.”

Mickey set the little tube down and stares at the other options arranged before him. He doesn’t know how to do this. He isn’t like Ian.

This isn’t making him feel better at all.

“Here. Let me help you.” Ian reaches out and snags a grey from the line. “Try this.” He grabs Mickey’s hand and dollops a little paint onto his finger. “Grey. Caught between black and white. Kind of foggy.” He catches Mickey’s eyes, and his face is solemn. “Someone not sure of what they are, perhaps. Caught between what they should do and what they want to do. Try it.”

Mickey bites his lip and glances down at the paint on his hand. He doesn’t remember how to paint at all. Art wasn’t something he ever had time to pursue. He slides his hand across the canvas, and the paint applies in blotchy patches, all straight lines and angles and not what Mickey wants at all. He gives a little growl of frustration.

“Jesus, you’re a tough nut,” Ian mutters, and suddenly he’s moved behind Mickey, reaching over his shoulder and running their arms together. His fingers grip the back of Mickey’s hand, and his other arm wraps around Mickey’s chest, securing himself, as he leans forward and gently guides Mickey’s hand back to the canvas. He moves in soft, even strokes, softly filling in lines and letting the color fall. Mickey gives in and allows Ian to control of his motions, watching as the person on the canvas begins to come to life, so unreal yet real in the same ways. There are no eyes, no mouth, no hair, but somehow in the colors and shapes, Ian is revealing exactly how they feel, what they are.

Hiding. Huddled in on themselves. Cupping their heart in their hands.

“You pick the next color,” Ian whispers in Mickey’s ear, breathe blowing across his face, and Mickey shudders as he realizes just how close Ian is pressed against his back. It shouldn’t feel this good. He doesn’t even know if Ian’s gay.

Ian lets go of him long enough for Mickey to reach out and pick the crimson, crimson because there’s hope, but as soon as Mickey leans back and spreads the dark red across his fingers, Ian is back, twining their hands together once more and leaning forward against him. Mickey’s fingers return to the canvas, using little pinky strokes to add the dashes of dark color, creating life, giving warmth. Finger painting has always sounded so crude to Mickey, but now, in front of him, it’s a thing of beauty, so intimate and amazing to watch. Small dabs along the undefined ribcage, creating the impression of a heart, a warm core, and Mickey realizes that Ian is no longer controlling him at all, merely allowing his hand to rest on top of Mickey’s as Mickey continues to paint.

Mickey finishes the red and goes back for a lighter shade of blue, the color mixing with the red still on his fingertips and creating purple streams on the canvas for a few moments until the crimson works its way out. His back is already getting sore, and now he knows why Ian was rolling his shoulders all the time. It’s from sitting hunched over on the floor, creating, for hours and hours on end.

“There. You got it,” Ian breathes, and Mickey can’t help but grin. The feeling of paint between his fingers is such childish pleasure, but there is something so delightful about feeling it, cool to the touch as it spreads across the rough canvas, squishing and spreading and somehow becoming beautiful.

“You’re good at this,” Ian teases, pulling away completely. It leaves Mickey’s back feeling cold and somehow bare. Ian stretches across the floor to grab his coffee, lapping at it with tiny sips. “See? Isn’t this better than beer?”

“It is,” Mickey admits, finishing with the blue and sitting up straight, glancing around for a cloth to wipe his hand off on. “Um…can I…”

“Here.” Ian takes his hand and, before Mickey can pull away, has wiped it off on Ian’s own shirt, leaving the green fabric stained with blue and faint remnants of the other colors. “It washes out mostly,” he tells Mickey when he sees his expression. “Relax.” He pulls his knees up to his chest and sits his chin on top, staring at the painting. “Do you think you’re done?”

“Uh…” Mickey glances down, smiling with more than just a little pride. “I think so.”

“Yeah, I think so too. And you’re feeling better, too, I think.” Ian winks at him. “No need for cyanide, right?”

Mickey considers him for a moment. “You know, you seem pretty anti-alcohol for someone I keep meeting in bars.”

Ian scoffs. “No. I don’t have anything against alcohol. What I have an issue with is alcohol and you.” He picks at the frayed bottoms of his jeans before staring back up at Mickey. “I don’t like seeing people fall apart.” His eyes are wide and sad and Mickey is shocked because in that one moment, he feels like he’s really seeing Ian in all he is for the first time.

And, even if months ago the only thing he wanted was to make Ian himself fall apart, make him as vulnerable as Mickey had felt that night, suddenly he’s not sure if he could handle it. “I feel guilty,” Ian admits. “You know…when I saw you in the bar…that night…I just wanted to make you feel better. At first. But I think I screwed up, didn’t I? I got too personal. Maya hates it when I do that to her, and we’ve been living together for five years. It wasn’t fair of me to do that to you.”

“It’s fine.” Mickey shrugs. No, it isn’t fine. Ian had turned him upside down and changed everything and Mickey had hated him for it. But he hates seeing the expression on Ian’s face even more.

He changes the subject instead. “So…how did you and Maya meet?” he asks. And then, cringing a little, he continues. “Ex-girlfriend?” They do seem to have that love-hate relationship downpat.

Ian stares at him for a moment before barking out a laugh. “Oh hell no. Even if I was straight I wouldn’t go near that girl’s ice-cold vagina with a ten foot pole.”

A tiny part of Mickey performs a victory dance.

Ian glances over at him and raises an eyebrow. “So…?”

“So what?” Mickey asks.

“So are you going to go quoting the Bible at me or run away from my boy cooties?” Ian makes a face, but the fear is there, hidden in his eyes.

“Of course not!” Mickey scoffs. He bites his lip, lowers his voice and says with a shrug, “I’d be a bit of a hypocrite to do so.”

He wonders if Ian will understand, but of course it’s only a second before the other man’s mouth has opened in a small ‘o’ of understanding, and he grins.

“Cool.”

Mickey smiles back, and they stay like that for a moment before Ian makes a popping sound and shoots upright.

“Well, sir, I daresay you are going to miss your New Year’s celebrations if you don’t scoot.”

Mickey stands up reluctantly. “Yeah…I suppose…”

“I don’t think your painting is dry yet though,” Ian muses. “Maybe if we get Maya’s hair dryer…?”

Mickey bites his lip. “Tell you what. How about I leave it here, and come by sometime to pick It up?”

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.” His face scrunches, and he almost looks uncomfortable. Mickey immediately regrets saying anything. But the idea of Ian dropping out of his life again, maybe for good this time, is something that Mickey doesn’t want to think about, for reasons he doesn’t quite want to explore.

“You know, I could just bring it to your place,” Ian suggests. “I know…I know that I sort of live in a dump. You don’t have to come back if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Mickey instantly assures him, and Ian blinks.

“Oh. Okay. Well you better go anyway.” He grins suddenly and holds out his hand, palm up.

Mickey stares at it for a moment before looking up into Ian’s impish face. “What?”

“That’ll be five dollars please.” Ian’s grin expands.

“Why?” Mickey manages after a pause.

“Because therapy is tough ass work and I need to buy more paint, you cheap bastard. Do you kick puppies and spit on children too?” Ian hums in satisfaction as, more out of amazement than anything else, Mickey digs into his pocket for his wallet and pulls out a five dollar bill. “I would have charge fifteen, but you get the sympathy discount.”

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Mickey shakes his head as he pockets his wallet once more.

“Yeah, but you totally stiffed Sean out of his money at the bar and the guy’s had a rough time lately,” Ian mutters, stuffing the money into his jeans. “I’ll drop by later and pay him.”

He bends over and carefully picks up the wet canvas, transferring it to the kitchen counter. Mickey watches his face, soft in the dim light, with a small smile playing on his lips. Ian’s eyes are halfclosed, his mouth still twisted in a gentle smirk, and he looks so effortlessly content in that one moment and so, so kissable.

Mickey doesn’t do it of course. What he does is go grab his jacket from the couch and follow Ian back through the hallway, past the hundreds of paintings. Ian turns against the door and fixes Mickey with his stare. “Do you want my address or do you think you can find it again?”

“Um…” Mickey isn’t sure. He doesn’t know this part of the city at all.

“Here. Gimme your hand,” Ian says, gesturing. He yanks the sharpie out from behind his ear.

Mickey narrows his eyes. “Are you actually going to write words this time?”

Ian laughs. “Yes, you goof. Give me your hand!” Mickey sighs and rolls his eyes playfully before presenting his hand. Ian uncaps the sharpie and writes, in careful precise letters, ‘Ian’s place—32 Darling Place’. “Don’t laugh—I can’t help my address,” he warns Mickey, replacing the sharpie in its proper place.

“Aw…Darling Place,” Mickey murmurs anyway, and is rewarded by a soft shove to the chest.

“Get out of here!” Ian laughs. He pulls the door open with a grunt and pushes Mickey outside into the snow. “And…please…”

Mickey holds his gaze as Ian’s face falls and he whispers, “Please…just be careful. With…the drinking.”

“I will,” Mickey promises, and, before he’s really registered what he’s doing, he reaches out and brushes his fingers down Ian’s cheek. Ian freezes for a moment, and Mickey does too, hand warm on Ian’s skin. After a moment, however, Ian sighs and relaxes into the touch, and Mickey finishes, drawing away and sticking his hand in his pocket. Ian chews on his bottom lip, eyes flickering everywhere but Mickey’s face.

“Goodnight Ian,” Mickey whispers.

“Yeah, sure,” he replies, slipping back behind the door. Mickey breathes deep and turns away, thinking they’re done, but a quiet clearing of the throat causes him to pause on the stairs and turn back around. Ian’s stuck his head back out, and he’s flushed pink even in the night light.

“Hey Mickey?”

“Yes?”

“Happy New Year.” Ian smiles at him, shy, and ducks back behind the door. It slams shut with a creak.

Mickey raises his eyebrows, tucks his chin into his chest to protect against the cold, and grins. He begins to make his way back down the street, and, suddenly, the New Year is looking a whole lot brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	3. Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the love so far :)

It feels _good_ , being happy again. He’s forgotten what it was like. Mickey passes the rest of the evening with Iggy and Joey, a smile permanently stuck on his face and his hand still tingling with the sensation of Ian’s cool skin. His brothers exchange bewildered glances at his sudden change in demeanor, but Mickey doesn’t care. For the first time in months, he has something to look forward to.

He’s going to go see Ian again.

Mickey goes to work the next day, and the purple sharpie is still stained on his hand, a harsh contrast to the formality of his suit. Other people congratulate each other in the halls of his building, hail the New Year, and that’s something that Mickey has never understood in the past. Why did people welcome another year? But when he makes a fist, the letters on his hand stretch and burn as a constant reminder and suddenly Mickey understands why others might be excited to have a new year come upon them. It’s a celebration they survived the last. It’s a hope for new things to come.

All day he feels elated, excited, and it is its own sort of oblivion in a way, but one he’s managed to reach without copious amounts of alcohol. He goes back to his apartment that night, still euphoric, and cooks himself a proper meal, his first in weeks. Later, he goes out into the city, finds the nearest art supply store, and buys exactly seventy-two dollars and thirty cents worth of fine quality oil paints, and twenty of the best stretched canvases they have. He throws in a new package of brushes as well. Back in his apartment, he wraps everything up in a neat package and sets it by his door to wait. He knows that Ian will probably catch on, give him that wide-eyed look of surprise when Mickey gives the package to him, but, to be perfectly honest, Mickey has never been good at waiting around. When he does something, he does it with all his heart. He can’t stop himself from remembering Ian’s soft face in the dim light of the apartment, and his heart jolts a little each time. He knows it’s dangerous, falling so hard  so fast, but there’s something so different about Ian that won’t let Mickey go. So unpredictable, so puzzling, so strong, so fragile, so everything Mickey has never encountered before. It’s almost like a slap in the fact to his father’s expectations, falling for a boy like that, and Mickey revels in it.

It’s three days later when he decides he can finally visit Ian without seeming like an overeager fool. He microwaves dinner and eats quickly as soon as he gets home, not even bothering to change out of his suit. It’s not important. He can’t remember feeling this excited for something in years, probably not since high school, when he’d allowed his childish fantasies to control his life. This feels like one of those fantasies, in a way, something his fevered teenage brain would come up with in the depths of his secretive romanticism, but the fact that it’s all real, that Ian is corporeal and solid and there makes everything all the better. When he dreams, there is an element of reality to it.

He almost forgets the package on the way out, but remembers it because he nearly forgets a winter jacket as well. When he turns back to grab his coat, the bright red wrapping snags his attention, and Mickey rolls his eyes at his own stupidity before gathering the present into his arms and heading for the elevator.

Rush hour is just ending when he reaches the ground, so there are plenty of taxis threading their way among the streets as the cabbies look for stragglers in need of a lift home. Mickey stands at the edge of the sidewalk and waves one down, jumping out the way to avoid being hit by slush when the cab pulls up to the curb.

The driver needs to look up Darling Street, and grumbles good-naturedly the entire time about traffic, who won the World Series and teenagers in general. Mickey hums and haws through it all, tapping his fingers nervously on the seat beside him. When the cabbie begins to glare pointedly at his fingers through the rear-view mirror, Mickey doodles in the condensation on the window instead. His flowers and stick figures are childish and sloppy compared to what he knows he can do, when he has Ian wrapped around his back, but the drawings sap away some of his nervous energy, and by the time the cab reaches its destination, he has achieved a level head. He pays the cabbie—a little too much in fact, which makes the man grin and brighten instantly—and hops out of the car. His newly shined shoes land in the snow, instantly soaking through to his socks. He bought these for looks, not for practicality. But it doesn’t bother Mickey now. He hikes the package higher in his arms and starts walking.

The teenagers are, once again, hanging out on the doorstep, laughing and joking around. They call out to him when Mickey passes, friendly and outgoing.

“Hey man!”

“You seeing Gallagher again?”

Mickey looks at their eager faces, so unlike what media has painted teenage boys in back-streets, and grins. “Yeah. I am. What of it?”

The boys break into giggles, honest to god giggles, and wave him away with a few calls of ‘See you later man.’ Mickey smiles and keeps walking, taking the steps up to Ian’s door two at a time. He knocks the snow off his feet and takes a deep breath before reaching out a gloved hand and knocking.

He shuffles backwards a little bit, readjusts the package in his arms, stomps his feet again, huffs his breath out to watch it materialize as fog in the air before him, and the door doesn’t open. Mickey sighs and reaches out to knock again. Still no answer.

He’s about to give up and go home when suddenly there’s a huge whack against the inside of the door, making the entire thing shake in its frame. Mickey leaps away in shock, nearly falling down the steps. But then he hears the unmistakable sound of laughter, high and breathy and Ian. He straightens up and moves for the door again, knocking more insistently this time. Ian doesn’t answer, but Mickey can hear the sounds of more thumping and the soft sound of his voice emanating through the flimsy wood. Mickey frowns, twists the doorknob in his hand, and finds it opens easily under his grip. He pushes his way inside, glancing around the hallway.

“Ian?”

The light is on in the room down the hall, and Mickey can hear someone moving around in there. He shoves the door closed and pads down the hall, poking his head into the room and glancing around. There’s Ian. He’s got earphones wound around his arm and stuffed in his ears, connected to the iPod held firmly in his hand, the other hand waving a paint-laden paintbrush around wildly. He dances, head bobbing and eyes closed. Every move sends flickering shadows stretching over the walls and the floor in the dim light of the lamp in the corner. Around him on the floor are dozens of half-finished paintings, or what look like half-finished paintings, along with more brushes and jars of open paint. With every move Ian comes close to disaster, but somehow avoids it every time, stepping delicately with bare feet as he twists and bends to the beat of a song that Mickey can’t even hear. His hair is streaked with splotchy green paint strokes, and his clothes—just a simple grey-neck t-shirt that falls to his thighs and sweats—are smeared with even more paint. The pale skin of his arms, his neck, his legs, revealed with every move, seems almost translucent beneath the paint stains. He looks like a work of art himself.

He’s smiling, smiling wider than Mickey could have believed possible, and it is one of the loveliest things Mickey has ever seen.

Ian has his back turned to Mickey when he fiddles with the iPod and tugs the earphones out, slinging the cord around his neck and hiking up his t-shirt so he can secure the iPod beneath the elastic waistband of his sweats. It provides Mickey with a fantastic view, but he tries to keep his eyes averted. He’s just snuck into Ian’s house after all—it seems a bit much to start ogling him on top of that. He clears his throat instead.

Ian whirls around, the paint brush in his hand leaving spatters of blue across the linoleum floor as he moves. Mickey is expecting him to be shocked, perhaps a little annoyed, but instead his entire face  lights up. “Hey Mickey,” he says, making his way through the paintings scattered on the floor. Mickey notices that he’s leaving yellow footprints behind—so he didn’t avoid disaster at least once.

“I…I heard a bang,” Mickey explains, gesturing back towards the door. “I…I wanted to make sure you were okay, I’m sorry…”

“Hey. It’s fine.” Ian laughs. “I slipped. The door graciously caught me.”

Mickey somehow can’t imagine Ian being clumsy enough to slip, but says nothing. Ian bounces up on the balls of his feet and hums a little under his breath.

“Do you want me to get your painting? It’s dry now.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure,” Mickey stutters. Now that’s he’s actually here, with Ian in front of him in all his messy glory, Mickey’s confidence from before has evaporated. That’s the problem with associating with extraordinarily beautiful men, he guesses.

Ian turns on his heel and begins dancing again as he walks over the kitchen area. Mickey’s painting is still lying on the counter. Ian picks it up with delicate fingers and glances over his shoulder at Mickey. “It looks great. You have a hidden talent.”

“Thanks.” Mickey makes a face.

Ian laughs and skips back to him, presenting the painting with a flourish. “Ta-da!” He tilts his head and presses his lips together. “Well, you can’t take it when you’re carrying that.” He stares pointedly at the package in Mickey’s arms, which Mickey had actually managed to forget about (what with said extraordinarily beautiful man dancing around).

“Oh…this!” Mickey blinks and lifts the package a little higher. “It’s for you.”

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up, and he sets the painting down on the floor carefully to take the package from Mickey’s outstretched arms. He sits down where he is, crosses his legs, and yanks the wrapping away. As the tubes of paint and canvases come into his view, he raises his head to stare at Mickey in surprise.

“For me? Are you serious? Mickey, these are nice…”

“Yeah, for you.” Mickey sits down in front of him and smiles a little bashfully. “I figured you could use them.”

Ian laughs a little breathlessly. “You know, if I were a socially adept person, I’d tell you that I can’t accept these…but…I really want them, so I won’t.”

“Well, you would have ended up with them no matter what,” Mickey tells him. “Why waste time fighting?”

“Sure.” Ian rips the rest of the wrapping away and takes the paint in his hands, staring in wonder. “God, this is fantastic…ooh, and canvas. And brushes, ugh, you perfectly fantastic human being!”

He lunges forward and throws his arms around Mickey’s neck, squeezing him tight. Mickey rocks back a little before he manages to steady himself. When Ian doesn’t let go immediately, he wonders if he should hug him back, but before he can drop his arms from their awkward position in the air to wrap around Ian’s back, Ian’s gone, scrabbling across the floor to scoop up his paintings and shove them over by the wall. “So, did it help?”

“Did what help?” Mickey asks. Ian pauses to give him a disparaging look.

“Painting. Obviously. Have you gotten drunk since?”

“No,” Mickey answers sheepishly. “Thanks Mom,” he adds, a bit more sarcastically, and Ian chuckles.

“No problem.” He turns serious, crawling back toward Mickey and settling so their knees are two inches apart. “No, but really. Did it help? Getting your feelings out like that?” His eyes are wide and dim, cast in shadow. The vulnerability is back, only for a half-second, and Mickey can’t take it.

“Yeah,” he admits. “It did.” Even if he’s not sure if it was the painting or Ian that’s been making his days bearable—the stirring in his stomach suggests the latter. The lie is worth it though when Ian’s face lights up, and he bounces a little on his knees.

“Good. Do you want to try again then?”

Mickey opens his mouth to answer, but Ian’s already grabbing one of his new canvases and setting it up. He pops the cap on one of the new oil paints, and is about to tear into the packet of brushes, mumbling something about how they better use them this time, when Mickey reaches out a hand to stop him.

“Ian,” he says softly, “I bought these for you to use. Not me. You’re so…amazing at this and…and I just thought you deserved materials worthy of your talent.”

Ian raises one eyebrow. “You come up with that yourself, cheese meister?” Mickey blushes and Ian smiles. “Well, I guess I can’t complain. Finger paints it is then!” He closes the tops on the oil paints and reaches for the acrylics shoved off to the side. Wordlessly, Mickey replaces the nice stretched canvas with some of the second-hand material. Ian rolls his eyes but he flips so he’s lying on his stomach, chin propped in his arms. “So…how do you want to start?”

Mickey takes a deep breath and shucks off his winter jacket before lying down right beside Ian, staring straight at him. He knows he’s probably getting his nice dress pants all covered in dirt and, knowing this house, paint, but right now it doesn’t matter. “Like last time, I suppose.”

“Right-o.” Ian lifts his head to gesture at the paints. “Go for it.”

“Oh…um…” Mickey’s brow knits, and he reaches tentatively for the dark red tube. Red, because red is fire. Red is passion. Red is what flares in his mind when Ian shifts and his bare arm brushes against Mickey’s. He uncaps it and lets the paint flow over his fingertips, deep and thick and somehow what he imagines blood would feel like, but cool.

It slides over the canvas, catching and slipping and staining. He lifts his hand back up and some of the paint trickles down his hand to his wrist. Mickey curses a little, when the hem of his jacket catches on the paint. Ruined.

“It washes out easy,” Ian reminds him softly, reaching out and sliding his hand over Mickey’s, guiding it back down to the canvas. His fingers are thin and long and cold, and Mickey wants nothing more than to wrap those cool fingers in his, kiss the tips until the warmth spreads through Ian’s body, make him blush a deep red so he matches the color of the paint. But he doesn’t. He allows Ian to thread their fingers together, and Ian has to shuffle closer, so their sides are pressed together, and everything on Mickey’s right is heat and skin and Ian and his left is bare, cool, abandoned. It makes him want to scoop Ian into his arms and hold him tight to his body, keep him warm everywhere. There are so many things he wants to do that he can’t do, not now.

Mickey begins to slide his fingers down the canvas, but pauses when he hears the music. He lifts his head and turns towards Ian, and realizes that the music, airy and soft, is coming from the earphones around his neck. Ian glances up when Mickey does, and grins.

“Oops. Sorry. I’ll turn it off.” He sits up cross-legged and yanks the iPod out of his waistband.

“What were you listening to?” Mickey asks, resuming lazy circles with his fingers with the paint. The red runs out and he picks up a light blue—blue because that is the color of Ian’s eyes today—and squeezes the paint out.

“Um…Dvorak’s Sixth Symphony in D. The Scherzo.” Ian stops the music with an appreciative hum. “It’s quite excellent.”

Mickey can’t help but let out a small chuckle.

“What?”

“Just that…not a lot of people I know spend time jamming out to Dvorak,” Mickey explains.

Ian shrugs. “I like it. Better than most of this modern stuff we get these days anyways. He sets the iPod off to his side and lies down next to Mickey, on his back with his fingers laced on his stomach.

“So, what’s your jam, Mr. Milkovich?”

“Me?” Mickey finishes the blue and moves on to a deep purple—serenity and calm and how everything falls into place. “I don’t really listen to music that much anymore, to tell the truth.”

When Ian doesn’t reply, Mickey raises his head. Ian is staring at him with his mouth open.

“What?”

“But how do you _live_?” Ian asks. “How do you not listen to music, you poor deprived soul?”

“I…”

“No wonder you drank!”

“Hey now.” Mickey reaches over and latches onto Ian’s arm before remembering he still has paint on his fingers. Ian shivers at the contact—the paint is still cool even after being warmed by Mickey’s hands.

Mickey doesn’t even know exactly why he did it. He just doesn’t like Ian thinking about him in that way—some sad, soulless animatronic with no passion, no life. Even if the past few years have leeched a lot of Mickey’s inspiration from him, he can still remember what it felt like, being energized and filled to the brim with feeling. Sometimes he takes the memories out and considers them, thinks about throwing away everything he’s worked for—his apartment, his job, his parents’ approval—in order to gain those times back. Of course in the end he always stores the memories away again, to be considered another time or through the bottom of a glass, but he can still feel the thrum of energy sometimes, when he tries hard. He can still feel it, every time his skin makes contact with Ian’s.

“I used to play guitar,” he says, because there is no way of ever expressing his true thoughts. Ian wouldn’t understand. Ian’s too alive to understand about feeling dead.

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up with what looks like surprise. However, within seconds, his face is back to its cool expression of polite interest. “Why’d you stop?”

“I left high school,” Mickey answers, removing his hand and squeezing more paint onto his fingers—he’s left a mark on Ian’s skin, dark like a bruise, with the purple, but Ian doesn’t seem to care.

“But you don’t even listen to music anymore,” Ian insists. “What about college? Colleges have music programs!”

Mickey barks out a short laugh, his father’s face flying to the forefront of his mind. “Didn’t have much time in college, I’m afraid.”

“You should’ve made time,” Ian grumbles. “You should always make time for music.”

Mickey sighs and focuses on the painting. He’s not even sure what he’s doing—it’s all just colors and swirls and shapes and nothingness but for some reason Ian rolls over and tells Mickey “I love it.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to.” Ian pushes himself to his feet and grabs his iPod off the floor. “Wait here for a sec, okay?”

“Okay.” Mickey picks up a tube of dark orange. It mixes with the purple and creates a muddy brown for a few strokes before turning brighter. He hears a door open, hears the thump thump thump of Ian running up the stairs, and counts the seconds before there’s the thumping once again and the sound of the door shutting and Ian is back. He sets down the bright pink CD player and feeds the cord into the nearest socket, a look of concentration on his face.

“What are you doing?” Mickey asks.

“You’re going to listen to music,” Ian explains, turning up the volume dial. “Keep painting.” He presses play and Mickey grins when he recognizes the music.

“Enya? You can’t be serious right now.”

“Shut up. I take what I can get.” Ian lies down once more and perches his chin on Mickey’s shoulder. “You’re good at this, you know.”

“No I’m not,” Mickey argues, trying to ignore the way Ian’s breath warms the side of his face.

Ian rolls away, flipping his body over until he’s on his back again. “Yes you are. Because you enjoy it. Whenever I’ve tried to get Maya to paint it turns out awful. Because she hates it but she still wants to be good at it. You just do it, and that makes it good.”

Mickey tries to think of a reply, but his brain fails him. He settles for a “Thank you.”

Ian hums in acknowledgment before closing his eyes and folding his hands on his chest, a small smile gracing his lips. His lashes throw dark shadows across his cheekbones, like raven wings. Mickey blinks and turns back to the painting, gathering the tubes of paint towards him and dancing his fingers across the canvas, shadows and shapes and nonsense that somehow comes together. The music tickles his ears, and he lets it in.

He was telling the truth, when he said he doesn’t listen to music anymore. Well, of course, he hears it. All the time, he hears it. Radios in taxis, store intercoms, terrible elevator soundtracks—music still manages to seep in through the cracks. But even if he hears it, he doesn’t listen anymore, not really. Because there is a difference between listening to the music, and only hearing it.

He doesn’t let the music fill him up and flood his soul and tingle the tips of his fingers and set him on fire the way he used to.

There simply wasn’t time, once he left school. It all became paperwork and studying and tests and becoming something and trying to please his parents but never quite succeeding, and because of that never being able to please himself, and working even harder to stop the self-loathing until it all became an endless blur of work and disappointment and never quite getting it right. He hated it, still hates it, because it’s become normal now, normal to feel disgusted and unsatisfied and he loves the days where he can feel nothing.

And then once in a while comes a day where he feels something, and feels like he matters in some small way, and those days have been the three days where he’s seen Ian.

Mickey raises his head quickly to glance over at Ian, only to find the other man staring back at him, otherworldly in the dim light. Ian blinks when Mickey meets his eyes and whispers, “It’s been two hours. Should you go home now?”

Mickey starts and reaches to fumble with his phone before Ian lunges and grabs his wrist.

“Paint hands! Paint hands!” he gasps, and Mickey freezes. Ian’s expression doesn’t change as he reaches down into Mickey’s pants pocket and grabs his phone. Mickey doesn’t even have time to be shocked before Ian’s flipped the screen open in front of him. Ten forty. He does need to go.

“It’s not dry,” he says immediately, gesturing at the painting.

Ian smiles. “Should I hold onto it for next time?” He ducks his head a little, and Mickey wonders if Ian can read his mind.

“Can you?” he asks, smiling back.

“Of course.” Ian stands, and bends down to turn off the CD. Mickey realizes that he must have set it on repeat—no way is one CD two hours long. Ian straightens and points to the painting from last time, still abandoned on the floor. “Don’t forget that one.”

“Oh yeah.” Mickey grabs his coat off the floor and shrugs it on before picking up the painting. He begins heading for the door before pausing and meeting Ian’s eyes. “Thank you.”

Ian tilts his head to the side. “So it helps?”

“Yes,” Mickey admits quietly. “It does. A lot.”

Ian takes a few steps forward, rising up on the balls of his feet and touches Mickey’s shoulder gently. “Come back whenever you need. I’m usually here.”

“Does Friday work?” Mickey asks, maybe a little too quickly, and Ian nods.

“If you come around five I’ll make dinner.”

“I don’t want to…impose,” Mickey protests, and he takes a moment to appreciate the fact he actually just used the word ‘impose’ in a sentence.

“It’s not imposing,” Ian reassures him, “It’s giving me an excuse to actually use the oven. Maya usually just does take-out, and I’m kind of sick of it.”

“Alright.” Mickey grins and Ian mirrors him after a moment, pushing Mickey towards the door.

“Now get. See you Friday.”

“See you Friday.” Mickey waves over his shoulder and heads down the hallway. He yanks the front door open and looks back. Ian has already sprawled himself out on the floor and is opening tubes of paint with a look of concentration on his face. Mickey smiles softly and slips outside, pulling the door shut behind him.                                                   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	4. The Island of Lemnos

Mickey actually shows up at 4:54pm on the following Friday, and spends a few minutes on the doorstep wondering if he should knock or not—maybe Ian needs those six extra minutes, after all—before a voice from behind makes him practically slip down the stairs.

“Are you going to move now, hobbit, or do I need to end you?”

Mickey turns around quickly only to find himself face to face with Maya, who’s standing there with her hand on her hip and murderous expression.

“Well?” She takes a step closer, narrowing her eyes.

Mickey blinks and moves to the side. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatevs.” She strides up to the door and tries the doorknob. It doesn’t budge.

“Shit,” she hisses, before slamming her gloved hand against the wood several times. “Gallagher! Open the damn door!”

Mickey stares upwards when one of the windows on the second story creaks open and Ian sticks his head out. “Oh my God, Maya, either shut up or remember to bring your friggin’ key next time!”

His hair is wet his chest is bare. His expression softens when his eyes alight on Mickey. “Hey there! You’re early! I’ll be down in one sec, alright?”

Mickey nods, but Maya throws her arms up in the air in exasperation. “Would you just let me in, Ian?”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” Ian disappears for a moment before poking his head back out and tossing something small and silver down onto the front step, right at Maya’s feet. “That’s mine though, so give it back or I will murder you.”

“Right,” she says. “Thanks.” He rolls his eyes and shuts the window.

Maya reaches down for the key and jiggles it into the lock. After a few tries, it turns, and she shoves herself against the door to make it open. She stumbles a few steps into the hall and turns back to stare at Mickey. “Well, are you coming?”

“Oh…yeah…” He rushes in after her and closes the door. Maya is already kicking off her shoes as she walks down the hallway, leaving the beat-up things lying in the middle of the floor. Mickey stomps his feet a few times to clear off the snow, and wonders if he should take his own shoes off. He never has before, and he’s 99.8 percent sure his socks today are the ugly grey ones with holes, so he decides to keep the shoes on and follows Santana. The hallway looks different, today, and Mickey realizes that there are several new paintings on the walls now overlapping the old ones—intricately detailed scenes of elves and fairies and dragons that look like something straight out of a storybook. Mickey had never imagined fantasy would be Ian’s preferred style, but then, he doesn’t really know Ian well enough to be able to predict him. He moves from the hallway into the living room area. It’s cleaner than usual—no paint, no brushes, no canvas, and even the stains on the floor seem to be missing. The lights are all on, and there’s a pot bubbling on the element in the kitchen. Maya slides over across the floor into the kitchen, slaps the key down on the counter-top and screams, “Iaaan! I’m putting your key on the counter!”

“Thank you!” Ian’s voice comes from upstairs. “I’ll be down in a minute!”

Maya begins to pull off her jacket. “Well, be faster! I’m sure as hell not gonna entertain your boy toy!”

“Can you check to see if the pasta is doing alright?”

“How much more time do you need to pluck your eyebrows?”

“Can you check to see if the pasta is doing alright?”

She moves to the oven to peer into the pot, picks up the wooden spoon from the counter, and gives it a few experimental stirs. “Looks fine,” she calls.

“Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope, that’s good thanks!”

Maya puts the spoon back down on the counter and hoists herself up right beside it, completely ignoring the stools slid under the ledge. She swivels around to face Mickey, crossing her legs.

“So…am I supposed to know you, or is this one of those anonymous types of visits?”

“What?” Mickey asks, perplexed.

She rolls her eyes. “Check or cash, boyo? Money on the dresser? Urges you can’t tell the wife and kids about?”

“Maya, I’m not a whore.” Suddenly, Ian’s there, dressed and dried, closing the door to the upstairs behind him. He smiles at Mickey warmly. “Sorry about her. She expresses affection by achieving maximum bitch levels.”

“Fuck you.” She flips him off from her perch on the counter.

“Well, that’s no fun for either of us,” he counters, and she snorts with laughter.

“You bitch.”

“You love me.”

“Only cuz you’re pretty.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “A compliment? Wow, Maya, I didn’t think you had it in you. Now scoot. I’m making dinner.” He brushes past her and opens the refrigerator, emerging with an unopened package of chicken breasts.

“Bite me,” she grumbles, but slips off of the counter all the same and heads for the upstairs. As she opens the door, she catches Mickey’s eye and winks dirtily. Mickey’s eyes widen and he turns back to Ian quickly. Maya chuckles and disappears up the stairs.

“She’s a terror, isn’t she?” Ian asks, unwrapping the chicken and switching on the other element on the stove.

Mickey chooses not to answer. “Do you need any help with that?”

Ian shrugs. “If you want to. Chicken needs to sear, and I need…” He bites his lips and closes his eyes, tilting his head back towards the ceiling, “Um…the butter, the parmesan, and the cream out of the fridge for the sauce. Just grab a pan out of the cupboard and melt the butter first.” Mickey nods and heads into the kitchen. Ian catches his confused look and kicks the cupboard beside the oven. He doesn’t have shoes on, Mickey notices, but his socks are very colorful. Knowing Ian, the socks were probably white originally, but now they’re splotched with all sorts of paint stains. Ian scoots out of the way so Mickey can kneel down and open the cupboard. There’s a saucepan in there, along with a muffin tin and one more pot, all settled inside each other. Mickey grabs the saucepan and stands back up.

Ian holds out his hand and takes the pan, settling it on the smaller element behind the pot of pasta. He turns on the switch and reaches across the counter towards the sink. The drain rack has several pieces of cutlery inside, and Ian grabs two forks out of the midst. He turns his attention to the chicken, and uses the forks to flip the breasts neatly. “Stuff is in the fridge,” he reminds Mickey. “If you still want to help.”

Mickey nods and moves to open the fridge. It is woefully empty inside—some milk, a carton of eggs, plus a stick of butter, some pre-grated cheese, and a tiny container of cream. That’s it. Mickey glances over at Ian and is suddenly ashamed of his stuffed-full refrigerator back in his apartment. It just feels wrong. He grabs the ingredients all the same and shuffles over to Ian’s side at the oven. Ian gives him a grin and presses a fork into the chicken, making it hiss. “Element’s on. Just pop the butter in, let it melt, and then add the cream and cheese. We should finish up around the same time.”

Mickey obeys silently, and the two work side by side, occasionally nudging up against each other in a way that sends small thrills up Mickey’s spine and that Ian doesn’t comment on. Mickey tries to  study the other man out of the corner of his eye, and finds it funny that, for once, Ian doesn’t seem to have any paint on his face or in his hair. His jeans and sweater have a few light stains, and of course there are the socks, but he actually seems relatively tidy for once. While it’s nice to be able to see all of Ian’s face, Mickey finds himself missing the quirkiness of Ian’s appearance. It’s just something that seemed written into his character, and without the paint smears and charcoal dust, Ian doesn’t seem to fit his own personality anymore. Mickey wonders if Ian cleaned up because of him, and then berates himself for even getting his hopes up. While he might be falling for Ian, there is no way someone as free spirited and unique as Ian would ever reciprocate those feelings toward a boring stockbroker. Ian belongs with an actor, or an author—someone who understands him, someone who won’t bore him like Mickey does. Someone special, which Mickey knows he is not.

“It smells done.” Ian’s voice jolts Mickey out of his thoughts. He stares down at the sauce he’s stirring. Yes, that’s done.

Ian bumps Mickey with his hip. “Hey. Go sit. I’ll finish up.”

“Are you sure?” Mickey asks.

Ian rolls his eyes. “Mickey, I’m the host here. At least allow me to act like one for five minutes instead of having you do all my cooking for me.”

Mickey chuckles and holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll go sit.” He walks over to the counter and pulls out one of the stools. Ian turns off all the elements and wraps his hands in the toolong sleeves of his sweater.

“Ian…” Mickey begins, but then Ian is picking up the pasta pot, hissing at the heat. He hurries over to the sink and balances the pot on the ledge as he starts running the cold water. He tilts the pot and dumps most of the water down the sink. He grabs one of the forks from the dish rack and uses it to hold the pasta back as the rest of the water dribbles out. Mickey stares, wondering why Ian doesn’t just use a colander, before he remembers that Ian probably doesn’t have one.

“Plates, plates, plates…” Ian mutters to himself, as he reaches up to the top cupboard and grabs two plates from the shelf. Quickly, he dishes servings of fettuccine out onto the chipped and colorful plates and sets the pot in the sink before turning off the water. Within moments, the pasta is topped with chicken and the Alfredo sauce.

“Voilà!” Ian exclaims, sliding a plate across the counter to Mickey. “Would you like milk or water to go with that?”

Mickey thinks back to the lone container of milk in the fridge. “Water please.”

“Right.” Ian seems to stumble a bit as he moves to get glasses, and Mickey shifts a little on his stool in case Ian falls. But Ian is right on his feet, and Mickey wonders if he imagined it all. Ian grabs two glasses out of cupboard and fills them both with water. He slides back across the floor in his socks and sets one glass in front of Mickey before sitting down across from him.

“Oh…forks!” He spins around and heads back to the sink, looking like some sort of graceful speed skater as he moves. He grabs two forks and, in an instant, is back in his seat. “Bon Appétit.” Ian picks up his fork and spins some of the fettuccine onto it. “And, just so you know, I never cook anymore, so feel free to be a cocky arrogant bastard about the fact you actually got me slaving over a hot stove.”

“You didn’t have to,” Mickey tells him immediately.

Ian shrugs one shoulder. “I wanted to.”

They eat quietly for a few moments, and Mickey is quite pleasantly surprised by the fact that the meal tastes quite good. He’s either used to microwave dinners, or the fancy affairs put on by his coworkers at restaurants with foreign names, or sometimes hosted in penthouses with fancy caterers, but somehow this is much more satisfying. He remembers back when he was around nine or ten, and his father still had time for it, how they would head out, just the men of the house, on some grand (three mile) hiking adventure and finish the day by pitching the tent and snuggling into sleeping bags together to tell scary stories. In the morning he would always wake up to his father boiling water over the  portable kerosene stove, and they would eat instant oatmeal out of the little brown packages together. It was messy, and sometimes buggy because of the mosquitos, but that oatmeal was always some of the most delicious food Mickey had ever eaten in his life. This chicken Alfredo feels the same way. It’s not the fanciest, or the best, but there’s something extra there. Mickey doesn’t know what it is, yet, but he likes it.

Suddenly, Ian sets down his fork and props his chin up on his hands. “So, I’ve come to the realization that we don’t know each other very well at all.” He nods in affirmation of his own statement. “That should change.”

Mickey pauses, halfway through shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth and raises his eyebrows. Ian makes a face and Mickey quickly pushes the rest of the pasta into his mouth and chews quickly. He wipes his mouth with his hand to make sure that he doesn’t have anything on his chin before nodding and muttering, “Sounds good.”

Ian lifts his legs so he’s sitting cross-legged on the stool and begins tracing aimless patterns on the kitchen counter where they’re sitting. “So, you played guitar in high school. You work down at Wall Street. Your name is Mickey Milkovich. And I’m afraid that’s really all I know.”

“So it seems.” Mickey shrugs, and grins when Ian glares at him. “Fine. You want a life story?”

Ian shakes his head. “No. That’s boring. I wanna ask you questions.”

Mickey snorts. “How is that any less boring than a life story?”

Ian hums and picks up his fork. He begins twirling it between his fingers and says, “Because they’re my questions, Dapper Dan.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Mickey challenges.

Ian smirks. “Fine. Favorite sex position?”

Mickey chokes on air, and Ian bursts out laughing. “Your face just now!” he gasps, “I’m keeping you around!”

“Wait, are you serious? You want to know my…” Mickey is three parts horrified, one part slightly turned on, until Ian reels back and holds up a hand.

“No. Not serious. We shall avoid adventures in the bedroom, for the sake of decency. I’m eating, and I have a delicate stomach.”

“Deal.”

Ian grins. “Right. So…favorite Dan Brown book?”

Mickey blinks, and Ian huffs impatiently. “Um…The DaVinci Code,” he mumbles.

“No, see, you already fail.” Ian sighs.

“How do I fail?” Mickey asks in bewilderment. Ian just gives him a look and moves on.

“Favorite movie actress?”

“Um…”

“Okay, moving on. Actor? Favorite actor?”

“Slow down!”

“No. What’s your favorite type of fish?”

“Dolphin!” Mickey blurts out without thinking.

“Not a fish,” Ian shoots back. “Dream vacation?”

“Hawaii.”

Ian groans and thumps his head down on the counter. “You’re hopeless,” he mutters into his arms.

Mickey frowns. “Well, you try answering then!”

Ian lifts his head back up and smiles. “Fine. Ask away.”

Mickey takes a drink of water and narrows his eyes playfully. “Okay. You try answering your own questions then. Favorite Dan Brown book?”

Ian scoffs. “None. Harper Lee, George Orwell, F. Scott Fitzgerald and JK Rowling of course.”, he ends with a smirk.

Mickey frowns. “Fine. Actress and actor?”

“Well, I don’t think we’ll ever see such a charming pairing as Bogie and Bacall. Favorite fish was next, I believe. And my answer is the Yellowtail Wrasse. Dream vacation is the island of Lemnos. It’s part of Greece.”

Mickey laughs, admitting defeat. “Why?”

Ian shrugs one shoulder. “Well, according to Greek mythology, it’s where the god Hephaestus was thrown down from Olympus and crippled by his landing. It would be quite something, wouldn’t it, to visit a place where even gods couldn’t save themselves?” He cups his chin in his hand and stares off beyond Mickey’s shoulder. “It would be quite incredible actually, to be in the place where even the most powerful beings had to be helped. Where even the worst injuries could be healed through caring and devotion.”

“Oh,” Mickey murmurs. He looks down at his hands, folded in his lap, and tries to think of something else to say. Nothing comes.

“Why’d you become a stockbroker?” Ian asks suddenly, voice soft.

Mickey closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Ian has already guessed this about him, that very first night they met. He doesn’t see any harm in elaborating on it now. “I guess…I guess I just wanted to become something. Something important.” His voice comes out husky, and he feels Ian’s eyes on him. “Something my parents could be proud of.” He raises his head and opens his eyes, grunting a little to clear his throat. “What about you? Why did you become an artist?”

Ian gives a small chuckle. “Oh, I’m not an artist. I just do that in my spare time.”

Mickey lifts his eyebrows. “So…what do you do for a living?”

“Go hungry, mostly,” Ian jokes, but it makes Mickey’s heart feel a little tighter in his chest. “I have trouble holding down a steady source of income, but I make do with odd jobs. I walked dogs last week for three days. And Maya works as a waitress in one of those sports bars. She helps me out sometimes.”

“Oh,” Mickey says again. He realizes that those dog-walking earnings are probably what’s feeding him right now. Ian’s mouth twitches upward, and his hands tap a little rhythm on his knees.

“So…tell me about your dad. If you feel comfortable, of course.”

“What? Oh…” Mickey has to think about it for a moment. He barely knows Ian, really, but, for some reason, it doesn’t feel as odd as it should. Maybe it’s the fact that Ian is so open with himself, so real and alive and present, that makes him seem so trustworthy, or maybe it’s the fact that Mickey is only slightly falling in love with this complete stranger, but he wants to talk. He really does. “Okay.”

So Ian sits there on his stool, still cross-legged, and listens with wide eyes. Not a single sarcastic comment leaves his mouth as Mickey begins to talk. He tells him about how his father had always been so busy, but always so central to his childhood. About how much it meant to hear those words, ‘Good job, son.’ About camping trips and pinewood derbies and Boyscout meetings. He tells Ian about coming out, and how his father had suddenly turned so distant, even when they were side by side building cars or playing golf. How there were never any words to say, not anymore. He tells Ian about the bullies at his first school, and how his father had shown up at the hospital and told Mickey quietly that he was transferring to a private school so he could be safe, how in those few moments Mickey had thought  everything was back to normal and they would be father and son again, but it never happened. He tells Ian about feeling so left-out at private school, about teaching himself the guitar, getting good grades and always hoping that he would make his father proud of him again. About how it never seemed to work, about how he knew his father had always wanted another business man in the family, and being a stockbroker seemed like the logical choice.

Some might say it’s an awful lot to divulge, but Ian takes it all in, eyes soft and kind as he stares at Mickey and doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. Mickey knows he understands.

When he finally finishes, Ian slips off of his stool and moves around the counter to Mickey.

“What?” Mickey asks.

“Get up,” Ian orders him, and when Mickey obeys, Ian steps forward and wraps his arms tight around Mickey’s shoulders and pulls him into a hug. Mickey stiffens, but relaxes almost immediately after. His hands drift down until they’re secured around Ian’s waist. Ian shifts a little and lowers his head onto Mickey’s shoulder, tightening his grip. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into Mickey’s ear.

“It’s not that bad,” Mickey mutters, feeling guilty. He has daddy problems—Ian doesn’t have enough to eat.

Ian pulls back, but keeps his hands on Mickey’s arms. “Does it hurt?”

Mickey bites his lip and nods a little sheepishly.

“Then it’s bad,” Ian tells him. “I’ve never understood that about people. How we try to minimalize our own pain simply because someone else is hurting worse. If we did that, then none of us would ever admit something’s wrong, because there will always be someone out there in the world who has it worse. Doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t help to whine,” Mickey murmurs. Ian is warm and solid beneath his hands.

“No,” Ian agrees. “But it doesn’t help to hold it all inside either. If we never tell anyone, how can they help to heal us?” He smiles softly. “When Hephaestus landed on Lemnos, he was nursed back to health by Thetis. But it was only because she knew he needed her help.”

When Ian leans forward and brushes his lips against Mickey’s cheek, it is startling, thrilling, and everything Mickey could have imagined. He wants more. He wants to turn his head and latch onto Ian’s mouth and never come up for air, just die like that—from lack of oxygen. He wants to graze his lips down Ian’s jaw into the hollow of his throat and just breathe in his scent—the smell of soap and skin and paint that he never got quite washed away. He wants to lay this boy out and trace his fingertips over every inch of his body, make him squirm and sigh and beg for more until Mickey leans over and swallows his words. He wants everything. He wants it so bad it’s frightening.

But Ian doesn’t. He pulls away, and his lips leave little pinpricks on Mickey’s cheek, tingling with the sensation of _not quite enough_. It burns.

“We should finish eating,” Ian mutters, releasing his grip on Mickey’s arms. Mickey lets go of Ian’s waist immediately, and Ian slides back around the counter and jumps up onto his stool. He fills the rest of their dinner with easy banter, talking about how well the new paints Mickey bought him work, how smooth the brushes are. He’s so young, and sounds so innocent like this, for someone Mickey met in a bar, for someone who at times seems so much older than he actually is.

After they finish, Ian asks Mickey if he would like to stay for coffee, but Mickey makes up some excuse about finishing some paperwork and needing to get home. Truth is, he would love to have any reason to stay longer, but the sight of the empty refrigerator still makes his stomach churn with guilt. He thinks about inviting Ian to his apartment, and then wonders if that would seem too forward, or it Ian would take one look at Mickey’s up-to-date appliances and fully stocked cupboards and think Mickey is boasting his wealth. He doesn’t want to risk it. So Ian walks him to the door and waves goodbye to Mickey as he heads out onto the street, out under a sky dusted with tiny snowflakes that melt instantly when they land on his face. They’ve exchanged numbers now, but Mickey is still surprised when he gets home and receives a text while toweling off after a warm shower.

**From: Ian Gallagher**

_I can see you not wanting to drink my coffee ever again, but how about next Wed @ the Cremery?_

_See you @ 7?_

**From: Mickey Milkovich**

_I’ll see you then!_

Mickey smiles to himself as he puts his phone back down on his dresser and tries to tell himself that this is not a date.

But he wants it to be one, so badly, so what is the harm in pretending?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	5. Patterns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Maya is basically Lip and Mandy combined, I feel like I needed put that in somewhere. I will explain more in the next chapter :)

They fall into a pattern. It comes easily, and naturally—at least for Mickey. The first coffee non-date goes quite well. The two of them sit across from each other at a table, and debate the merits of the upcoming presidential election candidates. Ian, he discovers, although he is not surprised, is a rather raging liberal, and wastes no time in shooting down all Mickey’s contributions whenever he tries to contradict what Ian is saying. It quickly becomes not so much of a debate, but Mickey blindly throwing out articles and Ian tearing them to pieces with his usual snark. When Mickey’s laughter interrupts Ian’s rant about the senator from Wisconsin, Ian stops immediately and stares at him with shock.

“Sorry,” Mickey apologizes. “It’s just…I’m not used to you.”

“You’re not ‘used’ to me?” Ian’s face grows guarded, a little wary, and Mickey instantly hates himself for it.

“No, no, it’s a good thing!” he assures Ian. “Do you have any idea the kind of people I am used to?” When Ian doesn’t answer, Mickey continues. “Boring, passive, mindless pencil pushers, right? And you…you’re not anything like that! You’re…exciting, and opinionated, and I really like that about you.”

He blushes a little and ducks his head.

“Oh.” Ian curls his hands a little tighter around his coffee cup before giving Mickey a bright smile. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Yes. It’s alright.”

They go back to Ian’s home, afterwards, and Ian grabs his cheap acrylic paints and spreads canvas out on the floor. They can hear Maya upstairs, singing raucously along with Alanis Morissette, and Mickey can’t stop from smiling.

Ian’s face, however, is troubled, his eyes dark and mouth twisted.

“What’s wrong?” Mickey asks him, shuffling a little closer along the floor so his knees brush against the other man’s.

“I don’t like seeing people in pain,” Ian whispers, eyes flickering up towards the ceiling.

Mickey follows his gaze. “Is she in pain?”

Ian bites his lips and fiddles with the paint in his hands. “She fell in love someone who couldn’t love her back as much as she loved them.”

“Oh.”

“I think that would have to be one of the most painful things of all,” Ian murmurs, almost more to himself.

When they paint, it’s cold and wet and slick. Mickey tries trees this time, the trees he can remember from those childhood hikes in the woods.

Ian paints a person, all in yellow, sprawled and mangled, stretched across the canvas like a corpse.

 

The next time, Mickey insists on dinner. Ian insists on fast food. Mickey pays the bill when Ian goes to wash his hands, and Ian glares at him for a good five minutes afterwards. The fast food joint is empty, except for the lone employee, who is mopping the floor up near the counter and humming along with the music over the intercom.

“You made dinner last time. Paying for some crappy cheeseburgers hardly makes up for that,” Mickey tells him when Ian doesn’t lighten up, and Ian’s face finally relaxes into an expression a little less murderous. He picks up a French fry and dips it into a little cup of mayonnaise.

“You know, I was actually a vegetarian until about two years ago?” And once again, with a few words, he has completely changed the tone of the conversation. It’s as if the brief argument never even happened.

“Really?” Mickey surveys the double cheeseburger on Ian’s tray.

Ian follows his eyes and grins impishly. “Really. I used to be really obsessed with my health, you know?” He sticks the French fry in his mouth. “I planned on leading a long and healthy life.”

“Does…does your family have any health problems?” Mickey asks, because for all he knows, most teenagers aren’t too obsessed with health, or at least not the internal kind. “To make you…worry?”

Ian barks out a short laugh. “You could say that.”

When Mickey sets down his Mountain Dew to stare, Ian shrugs one shoulder. “My mom died when I was eight.”

The food in Mickey’s stomach suddenly feels much heavier. Ian picks up another French fry and pops it into his mouth.

“I…I’m so sorry,” Mickey finally manages, wiping his hands on a napkin before reaching across tentatively and wrapping his fingers over Ian’s free hand.

“It’s not a big deal,” Ian tells him softly. “It’s better, actually. She was sick for a pretty long time before she died. I’m glad she didn’t have to suffer more than she did.”

“I’m sorry she got sick at all.”

“Yeah…well…” Ian takes his hand back and picks up the cheeseburger. He takes a bite, chewing carefully. He frowns when he catches Mickey still looking at him. He swallows and narrows his eyes at Mickey. “Stop staring. It’s weird.”

“Sorry.” Mickey looks down at his food instead. He hears Ian sigh, light and soft against the background music and sound of cars outside.

“No. Don’t. I shouldn’t be so…”

“You’re fine.”

“…bitchy.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“Ian…”

The door jingles, and the employee drops her mop as two teenagers, a boy and girl holding hands, walk up to the counter. They order hot chocolate, and wait patiently while the employee prepares it. Ian watches them, face blank, and only once the young couple retreat to a far corner of the booths does he turn back to Mickey with an amused expression.

“Mickey, stop arguing with me. You know you’re going to lose.”

Mickey raises his head and catches Ian’s smile. “You don’t know that.”

Ian scoffs. “I can win any argument I want to, Mickey Milkovich.”

“You don’t know that.” Mickey twists the straw of his drink in his hands. “I can be stubborn when I need to.”

“The day you win an argument with me will be the day I die,” Ian counters, before taking another bite of his cheeseburger.

Mickey eats in silence for a few moments before asking. “What about your dad?”

Ian looks up and hums, mouth full. He takes a drink of iced tea and cleans his mouth. “What about him?”

“Well, I never hear you talk about him,” Mickey explains. As more of a rebellious after-thought, he adds, “You never really talk about yourself at all.”

Ian raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He dips another French fry into the mayonnaise and begins doodling with it across the greasy wrapping of his meal. “Maybe because my personal life is horrendously boring.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” Mickey cocks his head to one side and stares, not letting up his gaze even when Ian catches him and glowers in his direction.

“You sure are one annoying son of a bitch, for a mindless Wall Street droid,” Ian mutters ominously. He lowers his eyes and shoves half the cheeseburger into his mouth at once. His head shoots back up and his face grows stony when he realizes Mickey is still watching, waiting for an answer.

“Fine,” he grumbles, holding up a hand in front of his mouth. He finishes chewing, leans his chin in his hands and says, “My dad lives in Chicago. I don’t talk to him a lot. We have a good relationship though, not like you and your screwed up daddy issues.”

That hurts, more than Mickey would ever want to admit, but the way that Ian’s face crumples up after he says it hurts more.

“’m sorry…” Ian mutters. “You have nothing to do with it. That was mean.”

“A little,” Mickey admits, taking a drink.

Ian pulls a wry face. “See? Bitchy.”

Mickey sighs and smiles. When he reaches across for Ian’s hand once more, Ian doesn’t pull away. He strokes his thumb over the pale surface of Ian’s skin, skimming over the light blue trails of veins. “I like you anyway,” he tells him. Ian blinks, and stares into Mickey’s face—Mickey can’t figure out what his expression is. Wondering, worried, anxious, hopeful?

“So, you neglected to tell me you have connections to Chicago too,” Mickey accuses him playfully, giving Ian’s hand a final pat before pulling back and popping some fries into his mouth.

“It didn’t seem important,” Ian argues. The young couple across the room suddenly laugh together, the sound crisp in the air, and Ian grins, looking over at them. “Did you have a childhood sweetheart?” he asks. Mickey should be shocked but isn’t when there’s a sudden movement under the table and Ian brings his legs up to sit cross-legged. He’s taken his shoes off, and isn’t wearing any socks this time.

“Um…I guess so,” he admits. “I mean…there was the boy I got bullied with…”

Ian’s face softens and he makes a small sound of consolation in his throat.

“…and, well…” Mickey chuckles. “When I was almost seventeen, I fell head over heels for this barista…”

Ian giggles, high and fragile, and his eyes gleam in the harsh lighting of the restaurant. “Do tell.”

Mickey shrugs one shoulder. “It could have turned out worse I guess. I remember…” he makes a face and laughs, “For that Valentine’s Day, I tried to serenade him with my guitar at work…”

 “You didn’t.” When Mickey merely nods sheepishly, Ian stuffs his fist into his mouth and laughs silently into it.

“I didn’t actually do it!” Mickey says quickly, trying to salvage his reputation. “I was too scared to go perform anywhere in public.”

Ian wrinkles his nose. “Pity.”

“No,” Mickey tells him immediately. “Good, good thing. I would have made a complete ass out of myself, believe me. When I went to go find this guy on my own and tell him how I felt, he told me I was underage and walked away.”

Ian winces. “Ouch.”

Mickey nods. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“But still humorous.”

“You are a bitch!” Mickey smiles to make sure Ian knows he means it as a joke.

Ian salutes lazily. “Hear, hear.”

Mickey shakes his head and finishes his cheeseburger in a few bites. “So…what about you?” he asks. “Any sweethearts?”

“None in high school. Couple in college,” Ian replies, trying to balance his straw on his finger. It falls onto the table with a small clatter. “Well, couple in college plus a shitload of one-night stands. Does that count?”

Mickey shrugs. “I dunno. Mine were never that sweet.”

“Ooh, scandalous. What would your mother say?” Ian flings a hand across his forehead dramatically.

“Shut up.” Mickey grins.

“Make me,” Ian challenges, but then sufficiently shuts himself up by sticking ten French fries in his mouth at once, and Mickey does not have to contemplate the other ways he could get Ian to stop talking.

They don’t go paint that night. Instead, they take a taxi to the park. Ian leads them into the trees, away from the path, and when the sky opens up and dusts the snow onto them, he runs ahead and tries to catch snowflakes on his tongue. Mickey leans against a tree and watches, smiling, as Ian laughs and whirls, arms held out and head tilted back towards the clouds. The snow settles on his shoulders, his cheeks, his eyelashes, and when he begins to sing, Mickey wonders if he’s going to draw a crowd with the noise.

“ _If all the snowflakes were candy bars and milkshakes, oh what a snow that would be!_ ”

It’s such an odd image—a grown man with ratty jeans and a stained sweater, no jacket, no gloves, who goes hungry when he runs out of money and lives with a heart-broken woman who insults his every move, who trawls bars and buys beers for strangers and teaches people how to feel through paintings—seeing him abandon it all and spin around in the snow like a toddler, cheeks turned pink and fingers blue with cold as he sings a childhood melody at the top of his lungs.

Mickey wants to preserve this moment forever, and just watch Ian twirl around him for the rest of his life or longer. He could do it, he thinks. He could do it if Ian would let him. He could take him home and give him everything, let him paint and sing and dance and love, and Mickey would be there for him, always be there when Ian would jump too high and need someone to wrap his wounds, to hold him until the hurt went away. Mickey could do it, take care of him, like a precious exotic bird that is too free to be caged. And Mickey knows that if he ever managed to hold that bird in his hands, it might look at him one day and decide to fly away again, but it would be worth it as long as Mickey could keep a few feathers to treasure and remember.

But then Ian has grabbed his hands and pulled him into a spin, and somehow they both end up on the ground, in the snow, laughing as the flakes settle on top of them. Ian lays back and sighs deeply, a soft smile on his lips. Mickey props himself up on my elbow, not caring that the wet is seeping in through his jeans, and wonders what would happen if he leaned over and kissed Ian, right that moment.

He doesn’t do it, of course, and after a moment Ian feels his eyes and flings handful of snow into Mickey’s face. “You’re always looking at me and it’s bordering on creepy.”

Mickey wipes the snow out of his eyes with an undignified huff. “Well, I have to look at you. It might help me avoid surprise snowball attacks next time.”

Another one hits him in the forehead just as he finishes cleaning himself off.

“Nope. You still fail.”

It’s cold, and dripping, but the smug tone in Ian’s voice makes him smile nonetheless.

“Now my fingers are cold,” Ian complains, and he stands up and brushes himself off. “I should go home. If you want to sleep in the park though, be my guest.”

“No thanks.” Mickey pushes himself up and follows Ian back to the path. Mickey hails a taxi for both of them, and drops Ian off on his street first before heading back to his apartment and spending the night wondering what it would feel like to kiss him.

 

Mickey has an increasing problem with remembering that none of these dates are actually real dates. A few weeks pass, filled with more coffee, a couple of movie showings, and hours upon hours of the two of them sprawled on the floor, finger painting. Sometimes Maya joins them, and sits on the couch making snide remarks and filing her nails, but now that Mickey knows about her broken heart, he can never take true offense to anything she says, not even when she says the house will catch on fire from the fumes of his hair gel alone.

“It is pretty bad,” Ian whispers to him after that particular comment. “It’s so shiny sometimes you look like a lighthouse.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows and stared pointedly at Ian’s hair, which was currently streaked with blue and purple paint. Ian rolled his eyes and muttered, “Not the same,” before returning to his painting. It’s another person; it’s always a person, yellow and faceless and writhing. Mickey doesn’t understand, but never questions it. He hones his talent for trees and mountains instead, and, finally after Ian’s insistence, he takes one of Ian’s little brushes and paints in two figures, a father and son, walking hand in hand across the trail.

 

It’s a Saturday morning when Mickey finds his way back onto Darling Place, right on Ian’s doorstep. They have plans to go to the old movie theater a few blocks down and watch the showing of Psycho at noon after a quick brunch—apparently Ian has connections with the owner, and can get tickets for free, and they plan to take advantage. No one answers when Mickey knocks on the door. He’s used to it.

Still, no one comes to answer after five minutes. Or ten. Mickey frowns and raps a little harder.

“Ian?” he calls through the wood. “Maya?”

He knocks again, so hard that flecks of the fading paint stick to his gloves when he pulls away.

“Ian? Maya?”

There’s a creak from above, and there’s Maya, sticking her head out the second-story window. “Go away hobbit!” she calls. “Ian can’t come!”

She slams the window shut once more. Mickey steps a few feet back so he can see better, cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts, “Maya, let me in!” Her face appears behind the foggy glass, and he can see her mouthing ‘no’ from where he stands.

“Yes!” he bellows back, and she flips him off before disappearing. Mickey growls in frustration. What is going on, that Ian can’t come? Is he sick? Hurt? Or has he finally gotten tired of Mickey and decided to blow him off?

Mickey shakes that notion out of his head and stomps forward to the door. The handle turns under his grip, and he shoves it open just as Maya appears at the end of the hallway.

“No! Go away!” she orders him. Mickey quickly steps inside and shuts the door behind him before Maya can decide to shove him right back outside.

“Maya, what’s going on?” he asks, toeing off his shoes and tossing his jacket right onto the floor, “Where’s Ian?”

“He’s…” she begins, when suddenly there’s a loud thump from the upper story. “Shit,” she says, and spins around in her socks, dashing right back into the living room.

Mickey’s eyes widen and he darts after her, slipping a little on the floor as he rounds the corner. Maya has already yanked open the door to the upstairs and is taking the stairs two at a time, skirt straining around her legs. Mickey hesitates at the doorway. He’s never seen the upstairs before, and there has to be a reason for that, but the fact that Maya is actually displaying an emotion other than contempt and spite tells him that there must be something serious going on, so he runs up the stairs after her.

The first thing he notices is that the walls up here have even more paintings than the downstairs. They plaster every available surface—walls, ceiling, the sides of the dresser, the heads of the two beds, in opposite corners of the room. They spill onto the floor, stacked in messy piles, and are crammed beneath the beds. The bright colors of the paints are in sharp contrast to the dirty grey of the rest of the room—rough wool blankets adorn the beds, which look like they’re made out of cardboard, or at least wood of that quality. The mirror perched on top of the one dresser is cracked down the middle and spotty with water, and the collection of items on top—the CD player, the hair straightener, the iPod, the lop-sided lamp—are all plugged into the outlet to the side through an overstuffed surge protector. The winter sun filtering through the dusty window casts everything into even more of a grey shadow, and Mickey can’t even imagine what it must feel like to sleep in here at night, in a place that looks like a prison plastered over with smatterings of color.

This all fades into the background, however, when he sees the door, slightly ajar, and hears the noises coming from beyond it. Maya’s voice, soft and sweet and so unlike he’s ever heard from her, and the quiet noise of whimpers and moans.

Mickey pads his way across the floor and pushes the door in.

It’s a bathroom—that much is certain. There’s a chipped bathtub that takes up half the space, a sink with all the plumbing exposed underneath, a toilet. It all looks clean, surprisingly. Old and worthless, but clean.

But there’s Ian, at last, on the floor curled up over the toilet in faded pin-striped pajamas, shuddering and shaking and dry-heaving, while Maya pets his back and makes small, consoling sounds while pressing a damp cloth against his pale, sweaty face, the back of his neck. Ian doesn’t react when Mickey falls to his knees besides Maya and takes the cloth from her hands. “Please, let me help,” he whispers, and she nods, face drawn and lined with worry. He stands, and goes to the sink to rinse out the cloth and make it damp again with cool water. When he drops back down, Ian turns his face, eyes closed, towards him and gives a small cry, deep in his throat. Mickey presses the cloth to his forehead and wipes at the sweat that has accumulated along his hairline. “It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs absentmindedly as he curls his other hand around the back of Ian’s neck to try and support his head. “You’re okay.”

Ian nods slightly, and his lips part as his face relaxes under the coolness of the cloth.

“Do you think he’s done throwing up?” Mickey whispers to Maya, who shrugs.

“Maybe. He’s been like this for the last two hours.”

“Well, let’s see if we can get him into bed.” Mickey gives Ian’s face a final pat before hanging the washcloth over the edge of the tub. “Okay, Ian, I’m going to lift you up now, is that okay?”

“…’ickey?” Ian croaks, eyes flickering open for a brief second before closing once more.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m going to lift you up now.” Mickey works his hands under Ian’s chest and pulls him off the toilet into his arms. He hooks his hand underneath Ian’s knees and pushes against the wall to stand up. He staggers a little—although he’s light, Ian’s length makes this difficult—and Maya grabs him by his forearms to steady him. “Thanks,” Mickey tells her, and she nods tersely.

She spots him into the bedroom and leads the way towards the bed on the left hand side of the room. Mickey settles Ian on top of the blankets before tugging them out from under him and laying them over his shivering body. He brushes his hand through Ian’s hair to smooth it away from his face, and frowns. Ian doesn’t have a fever, as far as can tell.

Maya settles herself on the end of the bed and rubs her hand over Ian’s leg over the blanket.

He doesn’t respond—it looks like he must have fallen asleep. She glances up at Mickey and sighs. “If you want, you can go make yourself coffee and wait until he feels better. Like a good boyfriend.”

“You know he’s not my boyfriend,” Mickey reminds her gently, suddenly realizing that his hand is still carding through Ian’s hair.

“No,” she admits, “But you want him to be.”

Mickey can’t deny that. “Are you sure you don’t need me?” he asks instead. She shakes her head and stretches down on the bed, on top of the covers, and pulls Ian into her arms, spooning him.

“No. I’ve done this by myself before, I can do it again.”

Mickey frowns at her words, but turns and heads for the door. He’s determined to wait however long he needs until Ian is feeling better, but for now, he’s willing to follow Maya’s orders.

“It won’t work, you know.” Her words stop him in the doorway.

“What won’t?” He spins back around to face her.

“You and him,” she says, not even bothering to meet his eyes as she tightens her grip around Ian’s chest.

“You don’t know that,” he tells her, stiffening.

“Yes, I do,” she murmurs. “Take it from someone who’s been there, Mickey. It’s not worth getting your heart broken like that.”

Mickey’s fists clench, and his jaw tightens. “I’m willing to risk it,” he says, and turns towards the stairs once more.

 

It’s an hour before Maya slips down the stairs into the living room. Her hair is messy and stringy around her face, and her clothes are rumpled. She looks like she’s been crying.

Mickey puts his phone into his pocket, anger dissolving almost immediately when he sees her red-tinged eyes, blurry with mascara. “Is he okay?”

She nods wearily. “Yeah.”

“Are you okay?” Mickey asks, standing up.

She glares at him, but it lacks its usual luster. “Of course I’m okay.” Mickey takes a few steps towards her and she escapes into the kitchen. “Didn’t you make coffee?”

“No. I played Scrabble online and worried,” Mickey answers, following her. He holds out his arms.

“I don’t do hugs,” Maya spits, but sighs and slumps when Mickey beckons with his hands. She moves into his arms and doesn’t even flinch as he hugs her tight, her chin fitting perfectly into the crook of his shoulder. Slowly, her hands inch up his back until she’s hugging back carefully, her body very frail and weak in his arms compared to the front she presents to the world.

“Well, isn’t this nice? You two getting along like that. ” They jolt apart, and both turn to stare at Ian, leaning against the doorframe with the woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He’s ashen in the face, and wobbles a little where he stands, but the smile stretching across his face is genuine.

“Go back to bed!” Santana orders, pointing upstairs.

“Shan’t,” he replies cheekily, detaching from the doorframe and starting across the room towards the couch. He trips over his own bare feet, and Maya rushes forward to grab him. She wraps an arm around his waist and helps him the rest of the way. Ian collapses on the cushions and spreads out like a content cat. “Thanks Maya.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Thanks Maya.”

She sighs and ruffles his hair, perching on the arm of the couch.

“Can you get me food now?” he mumbles into his arms. She laughs affectionately and brushes a kiss to his forehead.

“I hate you.”

“Yes, you do. Now get me food.”

“I have cheese sticks.”

“And they sound delicious.” He pops his head up and grins at her, eyes crinkling at the edges. She rolls her eyes but slides off the couch and heads for the kitchen. She brushes past Mickey, and it seems to trigger her memory.

“You made poor Mickey here wait hours for you, bastard.”

“Sorry Mickey,” Ian calls from the couch, and Mickey decides it must be safe to approach. He walks forward and kneels on the floor by Ian’s side. Ian turns his head so it’s no longer buried in the cushion and smiles at him. “I really am sorry. I stood you up.”

“No. No you didn’t,” Mickey mumbles. “Are you feeling better?”

“A-Okay,” Ian answers. He makes a face when Mickey reaches out a hand to rest against his forehead. “Thinking about becoming a nurse there?”

“You don’t feel warm,” Mickey tells him. It’s true. He feels perfectly normal.

“No. You’re right. I could have told you that myself.”

Mickey ignores him. He’s found that it’s a helpful tactic. “Do you know what you have?”

Ian stiffens, and Mickey leans forward in alarm, but then he’s grinning once more and looking at Mickey like he’s some sort of idiot. “Don’t you know flu when you see it? Or do rich people not get sick? In that case, you can sign me up.”

Mickey frowns. This doesn’t seem like flu. “Are you sure?”

Ian huffs. “Look, Milkovich, I think I know my body a damn sight better than you do. Of course it’s flu. Now, unless you want to get sick too, I suggest you move.”

Mickey shuffles backwards about a foot. “If it’s flu, then maybe you want to start with something lighter? Like…toast?” Cheese sticks can’t be the best thing for the flu, he figures, but Ian merely glares at him before turning his face into the couch again.

“Don’t have a toaster, rich boy,” Maya calls from the kitchen, slamming the oven door shut.

“Ian? These should be done in fifteen minutes, right? Can we kick the preppy out?”

“No,” Ian mumbles, before flipping himself off the couch. He lands on the floor with an ‘oomph’. Mickey starts forward, but Ian is already sitting up, rubbing his temples. “Note to self: that was not a good idea.”

“Good job, hot shot.” Maya climbs up onto the kitchen counter and sits there, swinging her legs.

“Are you okay?” Mickey asks, resting his hand on Ian’s knee. The fabric of his pajama pants is very thin and itchy, and Mickey wishes there was something he could do.

“Since when is me being an imbecile cause for concern?” Ian scoffs. He reaches out and shoves Mickey’s shoulder lightly. “Now…do you want to reschedule for next Saturday? I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be quite up to our Hitchcock movie adventure today.”

“Oh…no, of course not.” Mickey retracts his hand and sits back. “And…you don’t have to feel obligated to…”

“You’re my friend, stupid,” Ian cuts him off. “I’m never obligated to do anything with you. I choose to. You, me, a bucket of greasy popcorn—next Saturday. Be there.”

Mickey shakes his head, smiling. “Fine.”

“Of course it’s fine. Now, get out of here. I don’t want to get you sick.” Ian shoves him again, playfully. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Are you sure you don’t…?”

“Mickey, get out of here.” Ian pushes his hands against his knees and stands up shakily. He reaches back to grab the blanket off the couch and pull it around his body. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

“No!” Mickey and Maya order at the same time, and they turn to stare at each other in shock. Ian takes one look at their faces and begins cackling.

“You evil little bastard,” Maya growls, jumping off the counter and shoving Ian back onto the couch. “Just sit down and rest. I’ll make sure Sir Gels-alot gets outside.”

“Fine,” Ian swings his legs back up onto the couch and sinks lower into the cushions. He wiggles his fingers at Mickey in a half-hearted wave. “Bye Mickey. I’ll see you later. Sorry about this.”

“Bye Ia—” Mickey manages before Maya has latched onto his arm and is dragging him down the hall.

“Maya, I don’t think it’s flu,” Mickey whispers to her quickly even as she yanks the front door open. “I think maybe he should see a doctor.”

“I can handle it,” she says, picking up his jacket from the floor and thrusting it into his arms.

“Are you sure? Because…”

“I can handle it,” she repeats, a little more forcefully, steering him out the door onto the step.

“Now how about you take your stupid advice and your perfect life and go find someone else to bother?”

“Maya…”

“No, you listen to me. The last thing Ian needs is some idiot who doesn’t know boundaries when he sees them.” She presses a finger into Mickey’s chest. “Back off.” She tilts her head to one side, challenging him to answer. When Mickey doesn’t, she retreats into the house and slams the door in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	6. Breakfast for lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Maya is basically Lip and Mandy combined.  
> Lip because of Karen's involvement later (minor spoiler) and disliking Mick but Maya because Ian can't have actual family around in this one. Mandy because of caring for Ian and for taking heartbreak the way she does but Maya because having Mandy not being related to Mickey but being present messes with my head.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented and given this kudos. Opening my email and seeing the notifications is pretty awesome :) <3

When Mickey tries calling Ian that night, it goes straight to voicemail. The same with the next day. The same with every single day that week.

He can’t concentrate at work. His stomach gnarls and works itself into little knots, and the numbers dance across his eyes, flickering in and out of vision too quickly to process. He realizes during his lunch break on Monday that he’s gnawed all the fingernails on his left hand off—a habit he hasn’t had for fifteen years now.

Every night he sits in his apartment and wonders if he should go to Darling Place and make sure everything is alright. What if Ian is still sick, home alone all day with Maya at work? What if they don’t have enough to eat? What if he needs medicine, but they can’t afford it? What if Ian has gotten worse, and is already lying in a hospital bed? Every night Mickey talks himself out of it, saying that Maya will take care of it, will take care of him, and Ian will answer Mickey’s next phone call with his customary, “What’s up, Dapper Dan?”

He needs to believe this. The thought of Ian in pain makes Mickey’s fingers tingle and his throat feel tight. He can’t breathe for worry.

He calls his mother instead, on the Thursday. It helps, a little, to hear her babble on about the new countertop in the kitchen and how much snow they’ve had, but the anxiety still eats at his insides, hollowing out a cavern in the middle of his body so that he needs to clutch his arms around his chest before he can sleep at night.

He remembers feeling like this once before. Only once, in the weeks after he came out to his parents. He remembers curling into bed at night and feeling the weight of his father’s silence wash over him, disappointed and scared. He’d felt like his insides were turning into lead as he lay there, trying to hold himself together, trying not to cry, because men don’t cry, and maybe if he didn’t cry, his father would love him again.

He wants Ian, then, so fiercely Mickey can almost feel him in his arms. He wants to hold him tight and never let go, and he wants to feel Ian’s arms around him too. He wants to feel Ian’s soft breath on his cheek, wants to nuzzle his head into Ian’s neck and just breathe in the scent of him, all soap and paint and sweat. He wants to fold Ian into his chest and whisper promises of forever, and make everything else disappear. Because Ian somehow always makes him feel like he’s worth something. For everything else that he is—bewildering, dualistic, maddening, stubborn, witty, sarcastic—Ian has always made Mickey feel like he’s so much more than what he is.

Mickey can’t stand it. He can’t stand it because Ian is so far away and probably cold and hungry, shivering under that ratty blanket in that jail cell bedroom. He can’t stand it because Ian won’t answer his phone and Mickey can’t think straight without hearing his voice. Because he never believed in soul mates but he can believe in two of the most unexpected people meeting and making the world shift bit by bit. Because Maya told him it will never work out. Because he knows she’s right.

He can’t stand it because he knows he’s in love with Ian Gallagher and there is nothing he can do to fix it.

 

Ian calls him on the Saturday. Mickey is still lounging around his apartment in his pajama bottoms, eating Honeycomb out of the box and feeling immensely sorry for himself as he watches reruns of ‘Friends’ on one of those generic comedy channels. When the phone rings, he makes it to the kitchen on the fifth ring and snatches it off the counter. He nearly spits cereal across the floor when he sees the caller I.D. He answers the call quickly and holds it to his ear. Before he can say anything though, a cross voice cuts him off. “Where are you?”

Mickey feels every muscle in his body instantly seize and relax at Ian’s voice, and his grip on the phone nearly falters. He catches it last second.

“I-Ian?”

“Yes, of course it’s me! Now where are you? I thought we agreed to try the movie again today!”

Mickey frowns, although he knows Ian can’t see it. He hopes it projects through his voice. “Well, every time I tried calling you, you never answered! I didn’t know what time to be there, or if you even remembered. So I’m at home.”

Ian doesn’t answer for a moment, and when he does, it’s very quiet. “Oh.” He doesn’t say anything else, and Mickey can hear the sound of traffic, tinny beeping and the splashes of slushy snow along the streets. Finally, Ian sighs, static in Mickey’s ears, and mutters, “I’m sorry. I guess sometimes I forget that other people can’t see inside my head.” He barks out a laugh. “Not that they’d want to anyway!”

Mickey chuckles and set the Honeycombs box down on the counter. He pads across the floor into the living room and sinks into his chair. Chandler is having a melt-down on the screen, so he grabs the remote and switches the television off.

“You still there?” Ian asks.

“Yeah,” Mickey murmurs, settling deeper into the chair and drawing his legs up. “So…are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mickey,” Ian huffs. “Christ.”

“Well, last time I saw you, you’d thrown up your entire body weight,” Mickey grumbles. His voice grows. “And then I spent the entire week worrying about you! I mean…would it have bothered you so much to just pick up your damn phone? That’s really selfish, Ian.” He pauses, and realizes what he’s said. He’s never talked like that to Ian. He’s never talked like that to anyone.

Ian sounds much smaller than usual when he finally replies, voice wispy. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Mickey asks, trying to keep the tremble out of the words. He can feel the lump building in his throat.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” He can barely hear Ian now, over the soft sound of traffic now. “Can…can we see each other? To talk?”

Mickey rubs his hand over his eyes and through his hair. He can’t stay annoyed—not anymore.

“Yes, of course. Do you want me to come to your house?”

Ian snorts. “Believe me, you do not want to be here right now. How about we meet at the coffee place?”

“Okay,” Mickey agrees.

“See you in an hour?”

“Sounds good,” Mickey tells him.

“Okay. Bye.” There’s a scuffling on the other end, and Mickey rushes to say something before Ian hangs up.

“Ian?”

“Yes?”

“I…um…” Mickey hugs his knees tighter to his chest. “I’m just really glad you’re alright.”

“Thank you,” Ian whispers, and then the line goes dead.

 

Ian is already there when Mickey arrives, tucked in the corner with his hands curled around a cup of coffee. The shop is bustling—it’s about eleven on a Saturday after all—but Ian has disappeared into his own world, secluded and alone, with his head down and foot underneath the table tracing patterns on the tiles. Mickey slides into the seat across from him and smiles faintly when Ian looks up and greets him. “Hi stranger.”

Ian doesn’t have any paint on him. It’s the first thing that Mickey notices. The red eyes, the dark circles—those are merely additional signs that something is wrong.

“Ian, what’s the matter?” Mickey asks, reaching across the table and taking one of Ian’s hands between his own. His fingers are brittle and weak and so very, very cold, even when just seconds ago touching a hot mug.

Ian shrugs. “It’s been a rough last couple of days.”

“Why? Are you still feeling sick? Do you need a doctor?” Mickey starts up from his chair, but Ian tugs on his hand to keep him down.

“Mickey, I’m fine. It’s…household stuff.”

“What happened?” Mickey asks, before hastily remedying it with, “If you want to tell me, that is.”

Ian quirks a smile at him. “Do you really want to hear my tale of woes?”

Mickey nods, slowly, holding Ian’s gaze. “Ian, you have listened to me about my life I can’t count how many times. If I…if I can help you with your problems, shoulder any of your burdens, then please…let me know.”

Ian glances away and gnaws at his lips. He doesn’t remove his hand from Mickey’s grip however. “Okay,” he says at last. “Do you want to go get something to drink first?”

Mickey blinks, squeezes Ian’s hand, and whispers, “Alright. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He pushes his chair back and goes to join the queue up by the register. When he looks back, Ian has folded his arms on the table and buried his face in his sweater sleeves. He looks very young, with his hair tousled and his feet still dragging patterns on the floor, but mostly he just looks very fragile. Of all the things Ian has ever been, fragile has never been one of them.

Mickey orders his medium drip and hurries back to their table. Ian lifts his head and grins blearily at him. “Hello again.”

“Ian, if you don’t feel comfortable talking to me, you don’t have to!” Mickey tells him quickly, fumbling on the words as he sits down and scoots his chair in.

Ian sighs. “No. I want to. I’m just…not used to talking to people. I may need some practice.”

“That’s fine,” Mickey tells him softly, taking a small sip of coffee and wincing as the heat sears his tongue.

Ian grimaces and turns to look out the window at the passing cars and pedestrians on the sidewalk. Finally, he straightens his shoulders and, still staring outside, says, “Karen came back on Monday.”

“Who…?”

“She’s my other housemate,” Ian answers before Mickey can even fully formulate the question. He turns back to Mickey and runs his finger along the edge of his half-empty mug. “She tends to come and go every couple of months. She just crashes on the couch for a week or two and then…disappears and we won’t see her for two months.”

“Oh.” Mickey takes another drink, trying to figure out the problem. “Do you…not like her?”

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up. “No, no, I like her!” he assures Mickey. “No, she’s…sweet when she wants to be.”

Mickey frowns. “So...”

Ian closes his eyes and massages his temples delicately with his fingertips. “It’s a bit of a long story, and it’s not really mine to tell.”

Mickey doesn’t comment. This is for Ian to figure out.

“Can I still tell you?” Ian finally asks, not opening his eyes.

“I’m here,” Mickey murmurs. A small smile flickers across Ian’s face.

“Thank you.” He cracks his eyes open, and drops his head forward, fingers now working at the back of his neck. “Can we go for a walk?”

“Of course.”

 

“I don’t know if I ever told you this…” Ian kicks a pebble on the path and watches it skitter away through the thin layer of snow on the ground. “But I went to high school with Maya and Karen. Back in The South Side.”

When Ian doesn’t say anything more, Mickey figures that he’s supposed to contribute. “Okay,” he says helplessly.

Ian turns to give him one of those faces, that little smirk twisted with affection and pity.

“Okay?”

“Yes, okay,” Mickey agrees with a grin. Ian sniggers.

“Fine. Okay. So…um…so I already knew them. When I dropped out…”

Mickey’s face must give him away, because Ian stops and raises one eyebrow. “What? You not expecting that?”

No, he wasn’t. Dropping out was never an option for Mickey, not to his parents, not to himself, and the idea itself seems very foreign and abstract to him. “No,” he admits. “But…you said you…hooked up with guys in college.”

“Yeah, well…I lied,” Ian snaps. He rubs at his eyes and mumbles, “I thought it sounded a little better than saying I pulled random men out of gay bars.”

Mickey wonders if this is what it feels like to have your heart crack inside your chest, like an egg squeezed too tight in a child’s fist.

Ian grimaces. “You’re judging me now.”

“No!” This time, Mickey speaks with much more emphasis. He’s shocked by how loud his voice comes out, and glances around the park to make sure nobody is staring. Ian is staring, but laughing into his fist at the same time.

“I’m not judging you,” Mickey says, working to be quieter. “I’m just…wondering why you dropped out, I guess.”

Ian’s brow furrows, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders. “Do you really want to hear that story too?”

“Only if you want to share it,” Mickey tells him softly.

Ian rolls his eyes and smiles. “Well, aren’t you just a supportive little thing?”

Mickey shrugs.

Ian shakes his head and shifts a little closer as he walks, bumping his left arm right up against Mickey. He doesn’t have a coat on, and Mickey wishes he could wrap his own around Ian’s shoulders to keep him warm, but Ian always refuses his offers. Ian never takes his help.

“I was in my junior year,” he says suddenly. “My dad had just had an arrhythmia a few months earlier, people were stressing out over ACTs and SATs…”

Mickey notices how Ian’s footsteps are beginning to lag, and plucks at his sleeve. “Come on. There’s a bench.”

“So what happened, exactly?” he asks, leading Ian a little way off the path and to a small wooden bench set up as a picnic area. They’re right beneath a tree now, and Mickey can spy one small bird, puffed up into its feathers, perched on one of the higher branches. Every time a small gust of wind  brushes past the trees, the bird bobs, shuffling to keep its balance, and sinks even lower into the warmth of its own body as its feet curl around the branch.

Ian settles onto the bench, rubbing his fingers across his forehead. Mickey sits down next to him, as close as he can to keep Ian warm without seeming too anxious. Ian glances at him beneath his eyelashes and tries for a half-smile. “There was this…boy…who…made it his goal in life to make my every day a living hell. Him and his football friends. They…they hated me, even before I came out. And…for the first two years I could handle it. The dumpster tosses, the…names. And then…beginning of my junior year, things…changed. They got worse.” He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and Mickey takes his hand, rubbing it between his own to warm it up. “I…I don’t know what it was but…he never left me alone. He was always there…following me around the school and shoving me and…and touching me in…weird ways and I just…let him. I was too scared to stand up to him, ever. I wish…” He bites his lip, so hard Mickey can see the tiny indentations of his teeth when he opens his mouth again. A small droplet of snow drops from the tree onto the ground, and Mickey glance up to find the bird has taken off, a little dot against the grey sky.

Ian runs his fingers in a pattern along his jeans, tracing invisible doodles. “I just wish I hadn’t been so much of a coward. That…that I’d been brave. But I wasn’t. And after a while, I started skipping school, just so I wouldn’t have to see him. And…I don’t know. I didn’t want to have to tell my dad. He was sick, and I couldn’t tell him what was happening. But I ended up skipping so much that I lost credit. And I-I-I…I couldn’t stay there any longer.” He lifts one shoulder weakly and drops it down. “So I dropped out.”

“How’d your dad take it?” Mickey asks.

Ian laughs dryly, sarcastically. “Well, he was…disappointed. He tried to get me to go back but…but I couldn’t do it. I was so scared he was going to make me go back. So I…I left a note, hopped on a bus, and came up here, hoping to become something.” He rolls his eyes. “I was less afraid of coming to New York all by myself than facing up to a single stupid bully.”

“Ian…”

“I didn’t see my dad for a long time. I was…ashamed. I called home every once in a while, and he tried to convince me to come back, but I never did. I…I started interviewing for jobs. Small hobs, but…they paid. It sure wasn’t as glamorous as I’d thought it would be. I was…I was pretty entitled, as a teenager, but…yeah, living off of Ramen and tomato soup will change you. I didn’t…I didn’t have the money for nice clothes or gymming good food anymore…so I just learned to deal with it.”

He runs a hand through his hair distractedly, forehead creasing. “And then…one day I was at an interview and suddenly…Karen was there.” He laughs. “She was one of the waitresses. She and Maya were still together at that point—they’d only just graduated a few months before—and they invited me to live with them. So…that’s how that happened.”

Things click into place. “Is Karen the one who broke Maya’s heart?” Mickey asks softly. Ian nods slowly, moving his hand so he can wrap his fingers back around Mickey’s. “Yes,” he says. “Things were good for about a year. But Karen…she never learned how to treat somebody proper. She doesn’t realize she’s doing something wrong. So…one day she came back and told us that she was offered a part on Broadway…and that she’d be living with her dance partner.” He scrunches his face tight, shaking his head in little motions, side to side. “She loves Maya, I know she does. But…not the way Maya needs her to.” He pulls his knees up onto the bench. “So…a few months went by, and Karen came back, and thought they could get over it, you know? But she only stayed for two weeks before leaving again. She just comes and goes, and every time she comes Maya thinks that maybe this time she’ll be staying and it makes her break all over again every single time.”

A jogger approaches on the path, black pants and bright yellow headband glaring against the layer of snow. Ian shuts his mouth and watches the man pass, eyes flickering to trace his jarring pattern. “I started painting the first time after she left,” he finally says. “I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stand watching Maya be like that. And it was just easier…to find something to distract myself. But…I’ve just been hiding in the bathroom for the last few days. Maya…I think she’s done. And, if I know her, there’s going to be some sort of big yelling match, and I don’t want to be anywhere near it.”

“Ian…” Mickey begins, voice crackling in the cold, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Ian blinks, and curls up into himself, coughing violently into his hands. “It’s cold out here,” he comments lightly, raising his head.

Mickey stares at him—that worn-out face, bleary eyes, weak grin. “Come on,” he says, standing and dragging Ian up with him.

“Where are we going?” Ian asks, rubbing at his nose.

“Back to my apartment,” Mickey tells him. “It’s too cold out here.”

 

“This is one fancy bachelor pad you got here.” Ian toes off his shoes without thinking and goes to curl up in Mickey’s chair. Mickey grins and watches as Ian fumbles with the television remote, channel surfing until he finds some sort of makeover show. He settles deeper into the cushions with a contented groan.

“I’m making lunch,” Mickey calls, moving into the kitchen and putting the water on. “What would you like?”

“I don’t need anything,” Ian tells him, barely audible over the sound of the television.

“What would you like to eat?” Mickey asks again, leaning over the counter and grinning. Ian turns his head and meets his gaze.

“Fine. Do you have fruit?”

“Okay. Fruit salad,” Mickey declares, ignoring Ian’s stubborn squawk of protest. “And I’ll also make eggs and bacon. Breakfast for lunch.”

“That’s brunch, you dummy.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

Mickey delves into his refrigerator to go after the bacon. He grins when he hears the television turn off and Ian sneaking up behind him, but doesn’t say anything. Ian reaches past him into the fridge and grabs the egg carton. “Do you have flour and milk?” he asks Mickey. Mickey nods. “Is it okay if I make pancakes?” Mickey nods again. Ian smiles and bounces away across the floor, eggs in hand. “I haven’t gotten to use a real kitchen in forever! Where, like…everything works!”

“You can come use this one any time you like,” Mickey tells him, a little woefully. He’d worried about showing Ian his apartment, about making feel Ian feel uncomfortable, but he doesn’t seem to care at all. Mickey wishes he’d invited him over sooner.

“Where’s your flour?” Ian asks, and Mickey points to the corner cupboard. Ian skates across the tiles in his socks and wrenches the door open. “Oh my God, you label everything?”

“It’s easier to find that way!” Mickey argues.

“I’m pretty damn sure that I’d know that the huge white container of stuff that looks exactly like flour is actually flour, Mickey.” Ian giggles taking it out of the cupboard and settling it on the butcher block, and Mickey rolls his eyes with a grin, going to fetch Ian a mixing bowl and measuring cups. Ian digs the measuring cup into the flour, sending up a mushroom cloud of white dust into his face. Instantly, he looks so much more like himself, messy and laughing and trying to wipe the flour from his forehead.

“Can I have some eggs?” Mickey asks, grabbing his frying pan and turning the element on.

“Come get ‘em,” Ian challenges. He dumps the flour into the mixing bowl. Mickey walks over to him, watching Ian warily—he doesn’t trust him not to blow flour in his face. Ian shrugs and gestures at the carton of eggs. Mickey opens it, but jumps back and yells as Ian makes a sudden motion towards the flour container. Ian slaps his hands over his mouth and collapses against the butcher block laughing.

“You’re terrible,” Mickey tells him.

“Yes, I am,” Ian replies smugly. “And you’re gullible.”

Mickey chuckles and retreats back to the stove. He unwraps the slices of bacon and drops them onto the pan, sighing contently when the strips began to sizzle and snap. The water in the kettle finishes boiling, and Mickey quickly puts the tea bags in to steep. Behind him, Ian begins to hum as he mixes the eggs in with the flour. “Need the milk?” Mickey asks.

“Yes please.”

Mickey grabs the milk out of the refrigerator door and passes it over. Ian splashes some into the bowl without bothering to measure.

“Mind buttering a pan for me?” he calls as Mickey goes to check on the bacon.

“Not at all.” Mickey switches on the element next to his and reaches to the side to grab another pan. When he retrieves the stick of butter from the fridge and slides it across the iron bottom of the pan, the butter bubbles and gurgles and bursts as tiny little yellow bubbles.

“Thank you,” Ian trills, suddenly appearing at Mickey’s side, the mixing bowl held tight in his hands. He reaches into the mix with the half-cup measure and gloops it onto the pan. Mickey smiles, and cracks open the eggs next to the bacon.

“I got this,” Ian tells him, bumping Mickey with his hip until he relinquishes his hold on the pan’s handle. “You go deal with the fruit.”

“Yes sir.” Mickey reaches under the butcher block for the fruit basket he keeps there. “You like kiwi?”

“Love it.”

“Good.” Mickey takes a few, along with an apple, a few clementines, and a banana.

It’s so homey, and domestic, and for a few minutes Mickey can imagine this as their future. He sneaks glances at Ian while chopping the fruit, watching him as he flips pancakes and piles them straight onto the countertop when finished. It all comes so easily, that future, and he wonders what it would be like, now that he knows more, to take Ian in and tell him every day that he is brave, that it was alright to run, that there is nothing Ian could do to make Mickey ashamed of him, or love him any less.

“Well, I’m done. Are you?” Ian switches off the elements and turns around to stare at Mickey expectantly. Mickey grabs a bowl out of the cupboard and uses his fingers to push all the chopped fruit off the cutting board into it. “And lemon juice!” Don’t forget that!” Ian reminds him, eyes lighting when he spots the plates behind where Mickey got the bowl. He stretches up to grab a few.

“No. Stop,” Mickey tells him, grinning and grabbing the plates out of Ian’s hands. “You go sit down. I’ve got this.”

Ian huffs but obeys without further protest, slouching across the floor to the table. He clambers into one of the chairs and rest his chin on his knees, feet curled up on the edge of the chair just like the little bird in the park had clung to its branch. Mickey finishes arranging the food and grabs silverware out of the drawer. The tea is ready by now, so he hurriedly puts the plates on the table and goes to prepare it. “How do you take your tea?” he asks.

“Milk and sugar please,” Ian replies, eyeing the food in front of his nose with a pleased expression.

It’s only a moment before Mickey is settling into the seat across from him, handing Ian his mug.

“Thank you,” Ian tells him. “This…this is really nice. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” Mickey assures him, nodding when Ian looks up into his face.

“Oh.” Ian blinks and reaches forward for a crepe. “Well…thank you. I can’t…just…for listening, too. Thank you for that. No one has ever…really done that for me.”

Mickey sits there and tries to think of something to say, but before he can, Ian shakes his head and sticks his tongue out, staring at Mickey with a wry grin. “We need powdered sugar and syrup.”

 

They eat quietly, and Mickey isn’t sure how to feel about the fact that Ian eats most of it by himself. He must be starving, yet he’d never said anything. Mickey eats slowly, leaving more for Ian to hopefully fill himself up on.

He’s just finishing off the last of his bacon when a sudden spurt of white flies into his face. He blinks and rubs at his eyes, glancing up at Ian with shock. Ian bites back his grin, slowly lowering the sifter of powdered sugar back to the table top. “Much better.”

“You…you…” Mickey stands up from the table, and Ian shrinks into his chair, eyes wide. Mickey sets his jaw, and before Ian can even finish his squeal of dismay, he grabs the powdered sugar and dumps it all onto Ian’s head.

“No!” Ian gasps, falling out his chair and brushing the sugar out of his hair. The air fills with sugar crystals, floating like snowflakes in the breeze. “Oh, you’re dead!” He grabs the syrup bottle off the table. Mickey yelps and laughs, tripping as he retreats to the kitchen. Ian dashes after him, and Mickey yanks up the hose for the sink, pointing it right in Ian’s direction.

“I’ll do it!”

Ian yields the syrup menacingly. “So will I.”

Mickey cries out as Ian darts forward and turns on the water, spraying wildly. He hears Ian laugh and suddenly a warm body is colliding with his, and arms are trying to wrestle the nozzle from his grip. It twists and the water shoots up between them, drenching them both. Ian’s face is inches from his, pale and beautiful and dripping wet. He has shut his eyes against the spray, and he’s nearly collapsing from laughter, hair sopping and falling in his face, with rivulets of water running down his pinkened cheeks, mixing with the powdered sugar and making him look like a melting ice sculpture. He finally yanks the nozzle from Mickey and turns off the spray, clutching his hand to Mickey’s shoulder to keep from falling as he gasps for breath.

Mickey realizes that he’s laughing too, laughing harder than he has since high school. His clothes are soaked, and he can already feel some of his curls breaking free of the gel. He slides down the  cabinets and takes Ian with him, until they’re both sitting in the puddle on the floor, arms wrapped around their stomachs and laughing until they can’t do anything but wheeze.

“You…are…the worst!” Mickey tells Ian, thumping his head back against the counter.

“You love me,” Ian tells him, waving a hand dismissively.

Mickey blinks, and turns his head toward Ian. “I do,” he whispers without thinking. Ian freezes, mouth open and eyes caught half closed. A drip of water drops off his chin onto the floor.

“What?” he finally manages.

Mickey licks his lips and swallows hard. “N-nothing,” he stammers, standing up so quickly he almost slips.

“Mickey!” Ian catches his hand. “You…you said…”

“Forget I said anything!” Mickey runs his hands through his hair and hurries over to the table.

“We should…we should clean up.”

“No…” Ian’s voice is thick and broken, and Mickey turns to find Ian still huddled on the floor, holding his head in his hands. “No…”

“Ian, I’m so sorry,” Mickey begs, “Come on…do you want to borrow some of my clothes…?”

Ian lifts his head, and Mickey’s knees buckle when he sees the tears in his eyes. “Mickey, I have to go…” he murmurs. Ian clings to the counter and pulls himself up, refusing to meet Mickey’s gaze.

“Ian, please…” Mickey starts, stepping forward, but Ian shies away and hurries toward the front door. He grabs his shoes and slips them onto his feet, stepping on the backs. “Ian, please, I’m sorry…” Mickey catches him just as Ian yanks the door open. He snags Ian’s sleeve and tries to make him understand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“I don’t want to see you again, Mickey,” Ian whispers, face impassive, and if Mickey was wondering what is felt like to have his heart break earlier, now he knows. He lets go of Ian’s sleeve as if stung, and Ian slips out the door and slams it back in his face.

Mickey can hear him cluttering down the hallway for about ten seconds before he can’t take it. He collapses against the door and slides down, curling into a ball on the floor and letting the sobs claw out his throat and into the open air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	7. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can say is...I'm sorry.

Eight months.

Mickey copes. He’s always been good at coping. It’s become a tool of survival, after everything that’s happened. It’s always a gradual process, the slow acceptance, but it happens. It’s like covering up a cut with a bandage—the hurt is still there, and it occasionally stings, but he can no longer see it, so it might as well not exist.

At first it’s all he can do to collapse in his bed and stay hidden under the covers forever, creating alternative worlds in his head—ones where he didn’t fuck everything up, ones where Ian had listened and stayed, and even those impossibly painful ones where Ian had said the words back, had loved Mickey half as much in return. Those are the worst, because for a second, Mickey allows himself to imagine what it would feel like to have Ian in his arms right now, and then reality crashes his fantasies all the more brutally.

After a few days, though, he manages to take work and friends and the need to shave and spin it into string to sew his chest back together. He stitches his heart back under his ribcage from where it had been residing in shatters in his stomach, adjusts the smile on his face, and tries to turn his thoughts around to keep from spinning on blue eyes and paint-smeared hands. His suit covers up the rest of the damage.

For the first few weeks, the need to call—the need to take the fastest cab down to Darling Place and talk to Ian—is more a physical desire than even sleep. But Ian’s voice is always there as a reminder in his ears, telling Mickey over and over again that Ian doesn’t want to see him again. Ian doesn’t want him. Ever. So Mickey always drops the phone at the last second, or changes his directions to the cabbie halfway through.

Eventually, the voice in his ears drowns out even the need. And without the need, as the months pass, he loses the desire. Why pine the days away when forgetting hurts so much less?

He doesn’t turn to drink. That was what led him to Ian last time, so he avoids it beyond the usual beers with Iggy and Joey on a Friday night. He avoids falling into dependence again. The first time he’d drank because he couldn’t deal with his life anymore. Now, he knows how much more painful it can be, and alcohol no longer seems necessary. He finds a boyfriend instead, to keep his mind off things and his time occupied. He knows that on principle it’s wrong, finding a fallback for a relationship that never even happened, but finds it hard to be guilty, seeing as Connor makes it quite clear he’s in it for the fantastic sex, and works hard to stave off even Mickey’s feeble attempts at establishing an emotional connection. He never stays the night, and it feels very odd to not lie there and talk afterwards. Instead, it’s always a sloppy kiss while Mickey is still settling down from his high, and a promise to call the next day to schedule the next time.

But at least Connor always answers his phone.

They break it off after about two months—Connor claims that he’s moving to Los Angeles, Mickey is pretty sure it’s because he’s found someone more kinky and exciting—and after that, Mickey doesn’t try again, not for a relationship. There are a few one-night stands, generally on those nights he goes out with Iggy and Joey  and ends up finding a cute guy. Those are better, because now he can’t even label them with ‘boyfriend’ like he did Connor. They’re just people.

He begins to work harder at enjoying his job, to set his mind into the right networks and patterns to transform the numbers from maddening to enjoyable. Every day he goes to work with a smile plastered on his face, and after a while it sets up there automatically. He remembers his mother once warning him to not keep his face in some monstrous expression, or it would freeze like that. Apparently it works with smiles too. He no longer has to remember to put on his face in the morning—it never leaves. It doesn’t wash off at night.

After eight months, he’s completely shelled himself in by the safety of monotony. Like a hermit crab, he’s found a new shell, only this one is slightly more fragile. But it has the illusion of sturdiness, which is all he really needs.

It’s not everything he wants, but it’s all he actually needs.

 

Mickey has avoided travelling to this part of town at all, for the last eight months, but when Iggy starts babbling about a new bar going into the area, he can’t find any suitable reason to say no. He hasn’t told either of his friends about Ian. When he was still part of Mickey’s life, it had been because Mickey had enjoyed having Ian as his own precious secret, kept safe from the world. Now, he simply doesn’t see any point of bringing up the past. So neither Iggy nor Joey knows of any reason Mickey would want to avoid the city for within a ten block radius of Darling Place.

But his worry was unfounded. The bar is clean and dimly lit, with fairly priced beer, wide-screen televisions and absolutely no struggling artists with paint smeared skin to be seen. It’s one of the nicest bars they’ve found so far, and it soon becomes a regular haunt. Bit by bit, they begin inviting along coworkers to join them on Fridays, until it becomes a ritual. Until it’s been over a year since Mickey met Ian, and he has trouble remembering the color of his eyes.

 

The World Series game is playing in the corner, and Mickey is on his second beer of the evening. Iggy and Joey  have slowly and strategically—but not as slowly and strategically as they might think—made their way over to a group of young women sitting together in the corner, and their other colleagues have all dispersed into groups of two or three and started heartily welcoming the weekend. Mickey is sitting at the counter, starting to feel that happy buzz that says he may not be drunk yet, but he could be soon if he wants to. He doesn’t want to, of course, but it’s oddly comforting to know that it’s an option, at this point. One of the teams makes a double out, and eighty-five percent of the bar patrons  cheer, while the others shuffle their feet, now aware of the fact that they are the minority, and look mildly displeased.

Mickey doesn’t care either way. He hasn’t been following the games, really, but he smiles and raises his glass a little in order to fit in with the crowd.

He doesn’t pay any attention to the waitress when she slips behind the counter to whisper urgently to the barkeeper. The man’s loud, “Well shit,” does grab his attention. He turns his head to watch as the barkeep moves out from behind his counter and into the crowds, pushing towards the door. The nip of wind sneaks into the room as the barkeep disappears outside. The waitress scurries across the floor and waits by the door, holding it open a crack so she can peer out onto the street. Mickey can’t see the barkeep through the front windows, so gives up and turns back to his drink.

Joey’s voice from behind him interrupts him once more. Mickey swivels to face his friend. “What, sorry?”

Joey sighs, and the way he sways slightly on his feet is enough of a sign. “Iggy and me are going with Jessica an’…an’ Amy home, okay?”

This isn’t an unusual occurrence either. Mickey rolls his eyes with a grin and waves him away. Joey smiles and salutes him before spinning back around and tottering his way back to the corner where Iggy is waiting, his arms slung around the shoulders of two women—both blonde, with eerily similar faces and dress styles. For a moment Mickey ponders the possibility of getting the two mixed up, and snorts a little into his fist as the possibilities for hilarity rise in his mind.

“Just put ‘im here. Poor kid should be back on his feet soon.” Mickey perks up when he hears the barkeep’s voice back behind the counter, but isn’t interested enough anymore to turn and see. There’s a clatter, and a soft squeak that he assumes comes from the waitress, and then there’s the familiar sound of glasses being filled and orders taken. Mickey swills the rest of his beer in the bottom of his glass and debates internally whether to order another or not.

He doesn’t need it, he decides, and settles in to watch the rest of the game.

 

As the bottom of the inning draws nearer, more and more people gravitate from their seats to congregate around the big-screen television, the room unnaturally quiet for a Friday evening. Mickey stays seated—he knows he has a better chance of actually seeing the plays from here. He’s taller when sitting on the stool than when standing.

He takes the moment of calm to search for people he knows. Iggy and Joey have vanished, and it seems that a few other members of their crowd have wandered off as well. Mickey wonders vaguely if he should start taking more responsibility for them, but decides he’s fine. He knows his friends will be safe, and he doesn’t exactly know any of the others well enough to try and talk them out of something stupid. There’s a small part of his brain that chides him, tells him that maybe if someone had watched  out better for him, he never would have started relying on alcohol in the first place. But it’s the part of his brain that tends to get quieter as he drowns it in drink, and even after just two beers, it’s already a feeble little whisper in the back of his brain.

A soft thump sounds from behind the counter, and Mickey shifts to see what caused it. The barkeep is there, wiping absently at the counter, but now his eyes are fixed on the floor to his side. “Hey there kid,” he mutters, so low Mickey can barely hear it. “You okay?”

Mickey frowns, and shuffles closer to the bar in an attempt to see who the barkeep is talking to. But they remain elusive, as well as silent.

There’s a collective groan—or at least a groan from the eighty-five percent—and Mickey looks back to the television to see that there’s been a strike-out. A few people in the crowd are looking privately smug, and Mickey wishes he knew who was for which team, because he wants to know if he should be on the look-out for a bunch of celebratory, rowdy drinking from the eighty-five percent, or gloomy, eyes-down face-down drinking from the majority of people left in the bar.

Either way, he should be going. Mickey tries to catch the barkeep’s eye, and the man leans across the bar to him. “You want another one?”

“No, I’d like to pay my dues,” Mickey replies, digging into his back pocket for his wallet. The barkeep nods, but suddenly there’s a huge bang, and the man leaps backwards with shock.

“Holy shit!” His face turns back to Mickey, then down to the floor, and Mickey becomes aware of a sort of erratic banging from behind the bar. “Holy shit!” the barkeep yelps again, and drops down. Mickey gapes, and then slips off his stool, rushing around the side of the bar to get behind the counter. His eyes fall on the scene laid out at his feet, and he feels his heart drop down to his stomach in shock.

The barkeep has his back to Mickey, kneeling over the thrashing body of a man. Mickey recognizes it as a seizure immediately—one of his classmates in high school has pretty severe epilepsy, and the fits were not uncommon in Mickey’s junior year calculus class. The barkeep is obviously struggling to keep the man’s head still as he kicks and flails his arms wildly. A flying foot knocks into some empty cans stacked off to the side, and they go scattering across the floor, rattling as they go. Mickey kicks them out of the way as he scurries forward and falls down to his knees next to the barkeep.

“We need a stick so he doesn’t bite his tongue!” the barkeep hisses, and he jumps up without a backwards glance at Mickey, fumbling at the counter for something to use. Mickey freezes up for a halfsecond before realizing he’s just been allocated a duty. He reaches down and grabs onto the man’s head firmly, and moves so he can hold it steady between his knees. For the first time, he looks down at his face.

Mickey feels as if his entire body has just been doused with ice water, and the haziness of the alcohol retreats to the back corners of his brain, chased away by shock. His fingers slacken and seem to grow thick and unreliable, like he suddenly has sausages growing out of his hands. Ian bucks, and his heads lifts off the floor for a brief second before falling back down with a painful thud. Mickey gasps in breath and the spots in front of his eyes fizzle away. He clamps his hands back down firmly on Ian’s face, holding him steady. Slowly, Ian’s body begins to slow in its movement, limbs twitching feebly and the tick in his face growing more and more erratic until it disappears completely. The barkeep returns empty-handed, and sighs with relief when he sees Mickey has managed to keep Ian’s head still. “Thanks kid.”

“N-no problem,” Mickey stutters, allowing his muscles to relax as Ian’s body gradually settles its motions and stops. There’s a rivulet of spit drizzling down the side of Ian’s face from his mouth, and without thought, Mickey reaches out and wipes it away with his sleeve. He moves a hand to cup Ian’s neck and drags his head up onto Mickey’s own lap, gentle and slow.

Ian stirs at the shifting, and his eyes dart beneath his lids, back and forth, back and forth. He’s even thinner in the face now, and paler than Mickey remembers, pale like the moon in midwinter. It makes the dark shadows under his eyes all the more obvious, almost like charcoal smeared onto him, and while Mickey knows this is a possibility, this time, it’s not paint on his face.

If Mickey had harbored any anger for him, had reserved even a fraction of that rage he’d directed at himself for Ian, it all evaporates when he sees him, splayed out on the floor and shuddering. He can’t be angry now, can’t seem to find the emotion anywhere in his reserves. But that’s love, he guesses. It turns you into a complete idiot. “Hey,” Mickey murmurs, pushing his hair back from his face. “You’re okay now.”

“Do you know him?” the barkeep asks, wiping his hands on his pants nervously. “Should we call an ambulance, you think?”

And suddenly, in an instant, Mickey is sucked back into Ian’s life, and the frightening thing is how willingly he allows it to happen, how he welcomes the heartbreak back in. “I know him. He lives a few blocks from here. I’ll take him home.”

“Do you need help?” the barkeep asks, popping his head up over the counter and gesturing for one of the waitresses.

“Can you call me a cab?” Mickey asks, shifting so he has his arms hooked beneath Ian’s, hands clasped together over his chest. Ian is shivering slightly, and his sweater is very thin and ragged beneath Mickey’s fingers.

“Sure thing.” The barkeep pulls himself up and kicks a few of the scattered cans out of the way. Mickey inches upright, holding Ian tight, and begins dragging him towards the door. He’s very, very light now, all long-limbed and gangly. The waitress hurries to his side and begins ushering people out of the way. They’re all too focused on the game to look twice.

The girl holds open the door for Mickey and helps get Ian out the door into the night, shutting the door firmly after them. It’s chilly out, the moon just appearing over the skyscraper as a sliver of light,  and Mickey hugs Ian a little tighter to him, willing his body heat to transfer over. The waitress busies herself with hailing a cab, jumping up and down on the walk, while Mickey tries rubbing his hands up and down Ian’s arms, using friction to warm him. Ian stirs slightly.

“Wha…”

“Shh…you’re fine,” Mickey tells him softly. “Can you stand up a little for me?”

Ian nods, and shuffles so he supports some of his own weight. Mickey presses a kiss to his hair, like he would a small child. Ian smells like paint and soap and everything Mickey remembers.

“Is he going to be okay?”

Mickey glances up at the waitress, standing in front of him with her hands twisting by her lap.

He tries to answer with the truth, but it doesn’t come. “I don’t know,” he tells her. I don’t think so, he tells himself. Something is wrong, he knows. Ian is sick, very sick, and Mickey doesn’t have a plan beyond getting him back to Maya, who knows what to do. Who needs to know what to do, because Mickey doesn’t know anything, and he’s completely useless. Ian could seize up again and die right here in his arms on this street corner and there’s nothing Mickey could do to stop it.

But he can’t be frightened now. Allowing the panic to set in will only make things worse. Ian is relying on Mickey to get him home safe.

A taxi pulls out and slides up along the curb. Mickey thanks the waitress quickly as she opens the door for him and pulls Ian inside. He ignores the stare from the cabbie as he leans Ian up against the door and buckles him in. “Thirty-two Darling Place, please,” he tells the woman, and she shifts the cab into drive.

Ian shifts in his seat, and Mickey threads their fingers together, squeezing tight. “I’m going to get you home, alright?” he whispers, and Ian nods a little, eyes still closed.

It only takes a few moments before the cab is pulling up in front of Ian’s building. It hasn’t changed at all, except perhaps lost a bit more of its paint off the door. “I’ll be back in a minute, alright?” Mickey tells the cabbie, slipping her the fare. He leaves Ian in his seat and scrambles outside.

He takes the front steps two at a time and bangs both his fists into the door. “Maya!” he bellows, pulling back to cup his hands around his mouth, “Maya!”

The house is silent. Mickey tries the doorknob. Locked.

“Fuck.” Mickey turns back towards the cab, and then raps on the door once more. “Maya, open up!”

Mickey tangles his hands in his hair with frustration and spins on the spot. He doesn’t have a choice now.

He hurries back to the cab and shuts himself inside once more. “Actually, sorry,” he tells the cabbie, grabbing more money out of his wallet, “But can you take us somewhere else instead?”

 

Ian hasn’t gained any more consciousness by the time Mickey turns the key and lets them both into his own apartment. He responds with small motions when Mickey asks him to walk or stand, but beyond that, he has made no other attempts at speech, or even opening his eyes. Mickey switches on the lights as he goes, and drags Ian down the hall to his bedroom. His décor feels strange to him now, somehow trivial and foolish, and he doesn’t know why all of a sudden he’s bothered by the mauve on the walls when he should be worried about Ian. But as he moves, Ian practically asleep in his arms, he longs to punch the glass out of every picture they pass, hating his own smiling face staring back at him, hating those people in the pictures for being able to stay suspended in time.

He trips over a pair of discarded jeans, and nearly drops Ian, but catches him last second. Ian gives a small cry of protest, and Mickey sighs, shaking the jeans from where they’ve tangled around his feet. He blunders forward and feels for the bed with his free hand. Once located, he lowers Ian onto it before making his way around until he can switch on the bedside lamp. Dull light floods the room.

Ian has already collapsed backwards onto the bed, crinkling the perfectly fitted sheets. Mickey pulls off his own sweater to reveal the t-shirt underneath and throws it on the floor before moving forward to tug Ian’s shoes off his feet. He’s not wearing socks, and there’s purple paint on the arch of his right foot.

Mickey tries to remember what his mother always did for him when he felt sick as a child. Chicken noodle soup. Bubble baths. Television privileges. None of those apply here. He wonders, not for the first time since the barkeep had brought it up, if he should get Ian to a hospital, but the fact that always stops him is that if he brings Ian in, he’ll lose him. Ian isn’t his family, Ian doesn’t even want to see Mickey again—if Mickey takes him in, Ian will be whisked away to someplace Mickey can’t follow, and he can’t do that. He can’t do that to Ian, he can’t do it to Maya, and, selfish as it is, he won’t do it to himself.

When he touches Ian’s forehead, it is clammy with sweat.

“Okay,” Mickey mutters to himself. “Okay.” He knows this is what he needs to do, but the back of his neck is already tingling with self-loathing. He grips Ian’s sweater with the very tips of his fingers, barely breathing as he inches it up over his skin. He glances up at the ceiling and tries to engage his eyes in the textured surface as the shirt slips up over Ian’s head. It goes on the floor with Mickey’s dirty laundry. He has to look down for one second to unfasten the button and zipper on Ian’s jeans before his gaze shoots upwards once more. This feels so wrong, like he’s taking advantage. But aren’t you supposed to wash people down when they get all sweaty like this? He’s thinking back to movies and television shows now, and it seems to be the general consensus.

At least he’s wearing underwear. Thank God for small miracles.

Mickey tucks a blanket around Ian quickly and hauls him up so his head sinks into the pillows. Ian curls up a little on his side and mumbles to himself, and Mickey scoops up his clothes to go throw in the hamper. If he has a few minutes, he’ll take them downstairs to the laundry room and get them clean. Or better yet, he’ll just go buy Ian some warmer clothes, some that will actually keep him from shivering like that.

He heads for the master bathroom and snags a washcloth out of the cupboard. He switches on the warm water and dips his hand under the stream, waiting for it to warm up. He glances back out the door and is relieved to see Ian is still lying there peacefully.

Once the water is warm enough, Mickey soaks the cloth and wrings it out over the sink. He returns to the side of the bed and perches himself right beside Ian. He reaches out and dabs gently at Ian’s forehead and cheeks, eventually tracing down the line of his jaw to where his neck is shimmery with sweat. Ian hums and turns his head towards Mickey. His eyes shutter open, soft green and hazy beneath his eyelashes. Mickey moves the cloth back to his brow, leaning in. “You’re okay now. Go back to sleep.”

Ian nods and his eyes shut once more. Mickey can’t stop the chuckle that escapes his lips—it’s the only time Ian has obeyed without arguing. He peels back the blanket inch by inch, and washes down Ian’s chest, his arms, his stomach. He sends his mind somewhere else, thinking about song lyrics and hedgehogs and the Panini he had for lunch today as he wipes off the pale skin before him, taut over bone and muscle. The nubs of Ian’s ribs stick through his skin, tug at his body, and Mickey thinks that he looks like canvas stretched too thin. He’s a painting, vision in oil and lack of color, twisted and wrong but still so unearthly and beautiful.

Like one of Ian’s sprawled paintings in yellow.

The bile rises quick in Mickey’s throat, and he swallows it back down. He stares down at Ian’s face, all shadows and sheen, and he knows.

Ian’s been telling him all along.

 

Mickey sleeps on the couch that night, snuggled into an old blue comforter he’d found in the linen closet. Surprisingly, he sleeps well, waking up only once to check on Ian. Ian is buried beneath as many extra blankets as Mickey could spare, and a healthy flush is returning to his cheeks. Mickey steals a kiss to his forehead—he knows he won’t have time for more.

He wakes up late, and stumbles into the kitchen to make eggs and toast. He’s just pouring tea when there’s a soft sound from behind him. He turns to find Ian shuffling into the living room, the blankets still wrapped tight around his shoulders. His eyes are locked on Mickey, wary and wide, and his mouth is puckered with anxiety.

“Good morning,” Mickey tells him gently, “Breakfast will be up in a moment.”

Ian blinks, small creases appearing in his forehead. Mickey turns back to the tea. He hears Ian make his way over to the table and pull out a chair and Mickey smiles. He sets the toast on two plates along with the eggs and places everything on a tray to carry. Ian has his hands in his lap and his face determinedly turned down to the tabletop. Mickey slides his plate under his nose and sits across from him. “I can always make more or something different,” he says, lifting his toast to his mouth.

“No, this is fine, thanks,” Ian rasps, face still down. His eyes flicker up and catch Mickey watching him expectantly, so he takes the toast in hand and nibbles on the crust.

Mickey doesn’t look at Ian again until they’ve both pushed their plates away. He doesn’t want to frighten him off. He listens instead, hears the crunch of bread and smack of eggs, the slurp of tea and clinking of cutlery against ceramics.

“I tried taking you back to your place first,” he comments calmly as he swirls the last dregs of tea in his mug. “But Maya didn’t answer, so I brought you back here. I hope that was alright. I couldn’t just leave you.” He brings his head up and finds Ian’s gaze locked on his face. Ian starts at the eye contact and looks away immediately, even as he nods.

“Thank you,” he whispers. After a moment, he clears his throat again and asks, “Where…where did you find me?”

“A bar,” Mickey answers, fully understanding the irony of the situation.

Ian frowns and massages his temples with his fingertips. “But…but I was going to Brian’s…”

“Who’s Brian?”

“The guy I get paint from,” Ian tells him. He buries his face in his hands and shoulders shudder. “God. That’s fucking terrifying”

“You’re okay,” Mickey reminds him. He wants to reach across the table and take Ian’s hand, but holds back. No matter how much he wants to, it wouldn’t be right.

“I am so far from ‘okay’,” Ian murmurs digging his palms into his eyes. The blanket around him slips a little, revealing the naked skin of his shoulders. With the way he is hunched over, it makes him look like a bird perched on a rock, wings up and guarded.

“Ian…” Mickey starts, “Ian, if you can tell me, I can help…”

Ian lifts his head then, and Mickey reels back at the tears pooling at the rims of his eyes. “Mickey, you can’t help me!” he hisses. “Okay? You just can’t!”

“Why not?” Mickey shoots back, leaning forward to bring his face closer to Ian’s. He can’t understand—why does Ian always have to push him away? Why can’t he just tell the truth? It’s infuriating, knowing that Ian is sitting there, is sitting there with something wrong, and he’s too damn  stubborn to tell, to let Mickey help him. He can’t take it. “Ian, just tell me! What is it? What is so bad that I can’t help?”

“Mickey, shut up!” Ian screams, pushing his hands on the table and standing up. He hovers over Mickey, breath hot and tears starting to track down his cheekbones.

“No!” Mickey doesn’t stand up, but surges up in his chair slightly so their faces are about a foot apart. “Ian, please, just…tell me what’s wrong!”

“No!” Ian tugs the blanket back around his shoulders and stomps away from the table. Mickey throws his arms up in the air and stands.

“Fine! Don’t tell me!”

“I won’t!” Ian snaps back over his shoulder.

Mickey follows him into the living room, watching as Ian realizes he can’t just leave without any clothes on and turns back in the direction of the bedroom. “So what? Are you just going to leave again? Leave me here for another fucking year?”

Ian spins and jabs Mickey in the chest with his finger so hard Mickey knows it will bruise. “You have no right to judge me, Mickey Milkovich. No fucking right!”

“You are so selfish!” Mickey yells back at him, knocking his hand away. “You screw everything up and think it’s alright to just treat people like that, like they’re stupid, like they can never understand, so it’s okay to just fuck with them for fun and then cut them loose when you get bored!”

“You don’t…” Ian starts, beginning to shake.

But Mickey can’t listen anymore. He fists his hands in his hair and resists the urge to stomp his feet. “Do you have any idea how much time I spent crying over you, you selfish…”

“I’m dying, you fucking idiot!” Ian screams at him, red in the face, and the air falls still, hearts settle and thump, eyes grow wide. The words settle between them, swirling with the dust mites, heavy and dark and impossible to erase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	8. Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates today because I feel guilty :P

It’s the first time Mickey really sees Ian cry.

He does, with sobs that rip up his throat and chest and tear through the air, jagged and rough and real. He clutches the blanket so tight around himself that his fingers turn white, and he keels over, gasping and choking and stumbling a bit on his feet. It’s so sudden, and so violent, and Mickey doesn’t know what he can do. Ian has never seemed like someone to cry, but now it’s as if he’s stored it all up over the years, and he’s exploded, fallen apart.

That’s what happens when someone doesn’t allow themselves to feel, Mickey realizes. It doesn’t fade over time, or leak away through fingernails and hair follicles. The feeling just stays, and simmers, deep in your body, until it swells too big to stay hidden any longer. Sadness, rage, loneliness. Love.

It never really goes away.

He steps forward and grabs Ian’s shoulders before he can actually fall, pulling him up and pressing Ian into his chest. Ian’s hands fist in his pajama shirt and he buries his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck, breath hot and wet on Mickey’s skin. He’s shaking so hard that the blanket begins to slip, and Mickey quickly tugs it tighter, arms wrapping around Ian and holding him, one hand on his side and the other on the back of his head, softly stroking.

“Shh…” he whispers, “Shhh…” He wants to say more, wants to promise Ian that it will be okay, that he will be okay, but he can’t. Not when…not if it’s a lie.

Ian’s _dying._

His body is so solid and strong and real, but suddenly Mickey might as well be clutching at ash, ready to be blown away with the next storm. Ian’s skin jumps beneath his fingertips, and it’s almost like he’s actually cracking apart, like he’s made of eggshells that are being slowly crushed in Mickey’s hands.

Ian’s dying. And he never told.

What would it be like, to carry that secret around with you, every day? To have it there, heavy and dark in the cavern of your heart? Would you feel it, Mickey wonders. Can you feel it when you’re dying? Or is it just the knowledge there, waiting and eating at your insides? Can you feel yourself hollowing out? _Hollow men, stuffed men…_

Is that what Ian feels, everyday? Does he cover it over with smiles and joking and layers of paint, every morning? Does he force it all further inside, batten it down with laughter, and present a face to the world that holds no trace of shadow?

Mickey holds Ian tight as he sinks down to the floor, repositioning him into his lap and rocking slowly back and forth, back and forth, as Ian cries and shakes and dies. Ian’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying.

It seems impossible. He’s Ian—so opinionated and strong and passionate and alive. How can someone like that be dying? Death is for other people, people far away. Not Ian. He doesn’t deserve it. But it’s real, and it’s happening, and there’s nothing Mickey can do to stop it, so he just holds Ian and lets him crumble apart, walls falling down, like the Roman Empire, strong and real and alive until it wasn’t, until it was just ruins and a forgotten religion. The god Hephaestus, torn and crippled on the island of Lemnos, because even Gods can fall.

 

Ian ends up getting dressed in some of Mickey’s loosest sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt he won in a radio contest in college. His ankles poke a fair bit out from the hems of the sweatpants, leaving his feet cold and exposed, so Mickey digs up his pair of slippers from beneath the bed and gives Ian those as well. They settle onto opposite ends of the couch, both armed with coffee cups. Ian’s eyes are pink rimmed and puffy, his nose scratched red. He watches Mickey, blinking slowly, lips and throat working over the coffee with small sips. He looks more vulnerable now than Mickey has ever seen him, fully clothed and awake. It’s because he knows the truth now, Mickey knows. Because Ian is staring at him, and they both know that Mickey could say one thing and break Ian completely, break him so he can never be put back together.

It must be terrifying to Ian. It’s terrifying to Mickey as well.

“Do you feel safe telling me?” he asks at last, not meeting Ian’s eyes.

“Do I have any other choice?” Ian replies wryly, voice husky and deeper than Mickey is used to—he’s wrecked his throat with crying.

“You always have a choice,” Mickey tells him, resting his hands on his knees, determined not to touch Ian, not to scare him. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Ian shifts, pulling his feet up and hugging his legs to himself. “N-no. I…I should. I should tell you.”

“Okay.” Mickey chances making eye contact and is relieved when he’s rewarded with a small, watery smile. He risks it again and reaches out to touch his fingers gently to the back of Ian’s hand, wrapped around his knees. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Ian snorts, shakes his head, and rests his chin on top of his knees. “I…” He sighs, turns away. “Remember when I told you my dad had an arrhythmia when I was a junior?”

“Yes,” Mickey answers, frowning.

Ian shrugs one shoulder. “Well, it was about a year ago, I guess. Maya…I know she doesn’t always act like it, but she…she worries. About people. And I had been having these headaches, so she…she made me go see a doctor. We really couldn’t afford it, even then, but…but she didn’t really give a shit. But…um…when they did the tests…”

He squeezes his eyes shut, and his eyelashes leave little tracks of tears on his cheeks, like bird wings in snow. Finally, he forces the words out in a whisper that insinuate themselves through Mickey’s ears and run cold down into the pit of his stomach.

“It was a tumor.”

 

Mickey learns, learns too much to even process over the next hour. When Ian talks, it is always in that same raspy whisper, and as he speaks, the emotion seems to leak out of his voice until it’s completely bland, colorless.

It’s a benign tumor, and while Mickey had felt an initial rush of relief, Ian quells it right away. Benign tumors might not grow as fast, he tells Mickey, but of course they grow, or else he wouldn’t have one at all. It’s not considered cancer, he says, not if it’s benign, but it still causes the same damage. Just slower. He points out the spot on his head where he’s been told it is—his parietal lobe, pressing on the sensory cortex. Forgetfulness, he tells Mickey. Headaches, clumsiness, nausea. Recently, the seizures. He can tell it’s getting worse.

Mickey thinks about going through the day knowing that something is wrong in your brain, and even the idea of it makes him squeamish and anxious. There is something so personal about the brain— it shouldn’t be subject to the same diseases that plague the rest of your body. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that Ian forgets what he was supposed to be doing at times, will forget names and places. It’s not fair that he will suddenly seize up and pass out, no matter where he is. It’s not fair that Ian’s dying. It’s not.

“What do the doctors say?” Mickey asks, at one point. Ian raises one eyebrow.

“Mickey, we’re still trying to pay off the first doctor’s visit. I don’t have money.”

“But, what about…you know…health insurance?”

Ian just gives him one of those looks and crimps his arm tighter around his knees.

“I just fucking hate it,” he mumbles into his legs. “I…I looked it up and…and I keep waiting for the other symptoms to show up.”

“What other symptoms?” Mickey asks softly.

Ian shakes his head and hides his eyes. “Personality changes,” he whispers, “Trouble speaking.” He shudders, and the tremors ripple through his body all the way to his feet. “Losing my sight.”

“But…you said it grows…slowly, right?” Mickey’s tongue feels odd around the words. It. The thing murdering Ian slowly from the inside.

“Yeah, goody,” Ian snorts. “I get to die slower.”

Mickey frowns and scoots closer. “But you need to go see a doctor. They can get rid of this. They can cure it…”

Ian lifts his head sharply from his knees. “What part of ‘I don’t have enough money’ is difficult to understand?” he snaps. “I don’t have anything saved, Maya and I can’t afford any health insurance, and _I don’t have any money_ , Mickey. So stop talking like this is anything that can be fixed!”

He throws himself off the couch and starts stalking around the room, hands twisting and wrenching helplessly in the air. “Why don’t you get it?” he snarls. “I’m going to die, alright? And you…you talking about it like it’s something a couple hundred dollars could fix…” He stumbles, and bangs his fists into the wall, clutching tight and shivering as Mickey sits silently perched on the couch, not daring to move. He’s like a limpet clinging to a rock at low tide, like the helpless sea creatures Mickey found in tide pools the time his mother and father took him to the beaches in South Carolina as a child. “When you talk like that, sometimes I forget that I’m going to die,” Ian whispers. “And that makes it worse when I remember.”

“There’s still time…” Mickey begins, but Ian interrupts him with a harsh laugh. Mickey would expect it to be humorless, but…it’s not. Ian actually finds this funny. He’s worked so hard at not caring about it now that it’s funny. That makes Mickey feel sick more than anything else.

It’s one thing to be able to face death. It is quite another to look at it bearing down upon you and laughing. To think that Ian cares that little about himself, when Mickey cares so much…

“Mickey, I’m a ticking time bomb,” Ian murmurs, pulling away from the wall and walking so he drapes himself over the back of the couch. “I don’t know when this thing will finally press in just the right spot to kill me. It’s been a year since I was diagnosed. I was having the headaches for six months before that. Don’t you understand? I could die any day now, and worrying about it won’t do anything to stop that.”

The grin slides off his face and he presses his body into the couch, hiding. “It bothered me,” he mutters, barely audible. “It bothered me, at first. I hated it.”

Mickey knows. Now he starts to understand.

He understands how you can hate something so much that, as time passes, you grow used to it. It stops mattering as much. And the importance of the thing, that one big thing, just shrinks and shrinks and shrinks until only the hatred is left. The hatred and rage and self-loathing.

He understands how Ian can hate himself, can hate his body for betraying him like this.

“I…I didn’t get it,” Ian whispers, one eye peeking out and staring at Mickey. “When I saw you…I didn’t understand how you could think your life was so bad that you needed to drink it away. And then…then we you talked, I wondered how you could live your life like that…when you still have so much of it to live…but I suppose I never did things when I was alive either. And I’m not doing them now that I’m dead. So nothing much has changed. Except for the death thing.”

Mickey feels the stinging in his eyes and nose, but forces it back down. “So…you knew,” he croaks. “When we met, you already knew?”

Ian’s mouth twitches, and he shuffles around the couch to sit back on the cushions opposite Mickey. “Found out two days before,” he whispers. “Needed a distraction. You were a good one. For a few minutes at least. And then…later, for longer.”

So that’s all he’s ever been, Mickey realizes. He’s been a distraction.

A part of him says he should be angry. It’s overruled. He can’t object to Ian needing something, someone, anyone to draw him away from this, make him smile and laugh and catch snowflakes on his tongue so that when the headaches come back, they don’t pierce quite as sharply.

But even if he’s not angry, he’s still hurt.

He loves Ian. He loves Ian, loves him more than he ever imagined he could love someone. He knows that now. He loves his wit, his snark, his bitchiness. He loves the snowflake songs and Enya and finger painting and charcoal smears and holes in clothes and the fact that Ian is dying doesn’t make any difference to it.

He loves Ian now that he knows that’s dying, and Mickey will still love Ian even when he’s de—

He can’t finish the thought. He casts his mind elsewhere, looking for anything else to talk about.

“Who else knows?” he asks.

Ian leans his head back into the cushions and closes his eyes. “You. Maya.”

“Karen?”

“She wouldn’t understand.”

“What about your father?”

Ian’s face screws up in an instant, and Mickey thinks he’s started Ian crying again, but Ian just turns his face into the couch, takes a few deep breaths, and then opens his eyes once more. “No. Not my dad.”

Mickey twines his fingers together and stares at his feet. Finally, he whispers, “I think your dad would want to know.”

Ian shakes his head. “I’m not going to call him up for a friendly chat and tell him his son could be dead in a week!” he sneers, but all of Ian’s sarcasm can’t hide the words behind the words.

“So…you’re going to wait until the coroner calls him up and tells him it’s already too late?” Mickey asks. “Ian, you can’t hide this from him.”

“I have been and I will,” Ian snaps, but the flicker of his eyes tells Mickey he’s planted doubt.

“Ian, your father can help you…”

“Mickey, he’s worked in a tire shop all his life!” Ian glares at him and folds his arms, facing away. “He doesn’t have the sort of money needed for any sort of treatment. So what would good would it do, telling him I’m going to be dead soon and there’s nothing he can do to help me? No. He already watched my mother die and I am not going to do that to him again!”

He huffs angrily through his nose, and Mickey sits there, watching his feet.

Finally, he allows himself to swallow and for the spit to moisten his throat. It still cracks on the first word, but the rest come out clear, albeit soft. He shuts his eyes and sighs before: “I have the money.”

“No,” Ian says immediately. “No fucking way.”

“My job pays well.” Mickey steamrolls right over him. “I have a trust fund. I have more than enough money to pay for treatment, even if insurance doesn’t cover any of it. I’ll pay for it.”

“No, Mickey…” Ian’s face has gone cold and still in the morning light streaming in through the window. He’s like a wax figure, there on the couch, a human candle. Time bomb, Ian has said. Bombs explode in pieces of shrapnel and heat and the blunt force of air. But candles wear down with the fire until there’s nothing left but the wax dribbles at the bottom. Ian’s still whole, here in front of Mickey. He hasn’t started to melt yet, not on the outside.

“I don’t understand why you don’t want to live,” Mickey murmurs, and he slides across the couch towards Ian by a few inches. Ian’s shoulders slump forward, but other than that, he remains immobile. “Please Ian…let me help you.”

“I…I can’t accept that. I can’t let you do that for me,” Ian argues, biting at his lip.

Mickey slides closer, feels the tears creeping in at the corners of his treacherous eyes. “Then I won’t do it for you,” he says. “But _please_ , Ian. Let me do it for myself. Even if you don’t think you’re worth helping, please let me help myself by not letting you die…”

Ian’s mouth twists, and he gasps, blinking fast. He turns his head towards Mickey, chin trembling. “Why…?”

Mickey allows his fingers to alight on top of Ian’s, soft like butterfly feet. He dips his head and catches Ian’s eyes. “I do love you,” he breathes, and Ian tears away immediately, clenching his arms   around his chest and staggering away across the room. It’s such a sudden transformation, and Mickey realizes how many emotions Ian has felt in the last hour alone. It must be exhausting, but these are all the bad emotions, the ones he hasn’t shown. The bottled ones. Bottled, but shaken and shaken to the point where they explode outward as soon as the lid came off. Ian’s angry, and he can’t force it back in. He can’t stop. Mickey remembers what it felt like, back in high school after his attack, how he would go to the gym and throw everything he had at a punching bag, trying to erase the pressure behind his eyes. He remembers what it feels like to let everything go at once, and it’s never easy. He watches Ian crack along the edges, a dam finally running through with cracks and bursting outward. Glass shattering.

“You can’t!” Ian shouts, looking back at Mickey and shaking his head wildly. “You can’t do that!”

“Look, I understand that you can’t love me back and I don’t ever expect you to,” Mickey rushes, tripping over the consonants as he tries to patch up the holes with superglue, all the while knowing it will never hold. “I will never expect anything in return. But please let me do this…”

“No!” Ian’s hands fly up to his hair and he twists his body side to side in frustration. “You can’t love me! You can’t love me, you can’t do that!”

He’s never seen Ian like this. Losing control like this. Even with the seizure his face stayed calm. But now Ian is screaming and shaking and his face has gone pink with frustration. The tension thrums down every muscle in his body, and his eyes are squeezed shut, like he can’t even look at Mickey right now.

“Why not?” Mickey asks quietly. Then, softer: “You don’t have to love me back.”

Ian folds in on himself, tucking his elbows into his chest with his hands reaching up and over hishead to tug at the hair there. He growls to himself, words that Mickey can’t hear, until he finally sinks all the way to the floor. He unwraps his arms from around his head, and his face is flushed and splotchy when revealed. He stares at Mickey, shaking his head softly back and forth, with lips parted and dry.

“Because,” he whispers, “I see heartbreak every day. And I care too much to let it happen to you.”

Mickey shuts his eyes and breathes deep through his nose. “Ian,” he says. “Ian, I…”

Ian curls up and tucks his chin right back on top of his knees. “It’s useless, falling in love with me,” he whispers. “I can’t love back. I’ll be dead soon anyway. Why couldn’t you just forget about me? I never meant to make you love me.”

“Because it doesn’t work like that.” Mickey pushes off the couch and goes to sit cross-legged on the floor next to Ian. He doesn’t know if Ian has ever been in love, doesn’t know if he can expect Ian to understand. He needs him to understand, nonetheless. “I can’t not love you now. I tried. It didn’t work.”

“Well, try again,” Ian grumbles. His hair is sticking up now, like a hedgehog, but the light hits the red tint there in such a way that Mickey thinks of flames. Ian has started to burn, wax melting.

“Same thing will happen.” He shrugs. “So, I guess you have only one option, if you don’t want to break my heart. Let me help you. Not for you, but for me. Let me be selfish.” He shrugs, but on the inside it feels like every single one of his bones is trembling with nerves.

Ian snorts and nuzzles his nose into the fabric of the sweatpants.

“I’m serious,” Mickey tells him, picking at the fuzz on his socks, willing his insides to not vibrate out through his skin. He has to stay calm. One of them has to. “That’s the only way.”

“I’ll die anyway,” Ian says.

Mickey sighs shakily. “Well, then at least I will know that I tried my hardest to save you.” He tilts his head to the side. “Also, don’t you owe it to Maya? How do you think she feels, looking after you when she only knows you’re going to break her heart all over again…”

Ian whips his head around and glares at Mickey. He juts his jaw and narrows his eyes. They glint green against the pink of his skin. “Don’t bring her into this,” he hisses.

And Mickey knows how to do this. He stands up and offers a hand to Ian. “Do you want to take a shower before we go?” he asks mildly.

Ian stares at his hand in bewilderment. “What?”

“Do you want to take a shower?” Mickey repeats, trying not to be too amused by Ian’s confusion. It’s a bit of a relief, to see Ian honestly confused. It’s not an emotion he’s used to seeing with Ian, but it’s better than the rage. It’s better than the hopelessness.

Ian shakes his head and blinks. “What?”

“Is that a no?”

Ian blinks. “Um…no. I guess…I would like one.”

“Right.” Mickey turns and runs to his linen closet. He grabs an extra towel of the shelf and heads into the hallway. “I can dig up an extra toothbrush if you want.”

He hears Ian follow him into the bedroom. Mickey keeps going into the bathroom and places the towel neatly on the counter. “Let me get that toothbrush.”

He smiles softly at Ian before walking out and closing the door. After a few moments, he hears the click of the lock and then the stutter of water starting.

 

Half an hour later, and they’re both bundled into a taxi, not speaking as the cab darts through the traffic. Ian is very still in his seat, and pale. All the emotion has finally drained out of him, and he doesn’t have the energy to move. He rests his head against the coolness of the glass, and doesn’t blink.  When Mickey glances over about ten minutes in, Ian has shut his eyes. He might be sleeping, or just shutting himself out—Mickey can’t tell.

Ian opens his eyes when they reach Darling Place, and rubs his hands together to warm them. He stumbles out the door before Mickey and trudges his way along the street. Mickey pays the cabbie quickly and scurries after him. He dashes up the stairs after Ian and reaches out to knock on the door, but before he can, Ian cups his hands around his mouth and bellows upward, “Maya!”

The upstairs window flies open within seconds, and Maya still looks the exact same to Mickey’s eyes, except perhaps a little thinner in the face, with her dark hair pulled up into a ragged bun and red lipstick applied to only her upper lip. “Ian!” she cries, and she disappears back inside. Mickey swears he can hear the thump of her footsteps down the stairs, and then the door in front of them is wrenched open, and she pulls Ian into her arms, hugging him so tight Mickey worries she’ll break his ribs. “I was so fucking scared!”

“Sorry,” Ian mumbles into her hair, hands coming to rest on her shoulder blades, rubbing gentle circles. She squeezes him harder, and then her eyes snap to Mickey.

“What is he doing here?” She tries to pull away, but Ian just wraps his arms around her waist and mutters, “He took care of me last night. I passed out again.” He sounds so ashamed of it.

“We came here first, but you weren’t home,” Mickey tells her as she blinks hard and rubs her hands up and down Ian’s back. “I…I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so I took him home with me.”

He expects her to swear at him, glare, shove him away. That’s what usually happens. Instead, she tucks her chin over Ian’s shoulder and whispers, “Thank you.”

Mickey gives her a tight little smile. She sighs, and lifts her head to kiss Ian’s cheek. He’s never seen her like this before. Never.

He wonders if Ian has. He wonders if that’s why he loves her so much.

“Come inside,” she orders, gesturing to Mickey and still holding tight to Ian’s neck. She pulls him after her as she walks backwards through the door into the hall. Mickey follows, and shuts the door behind them.

It’s different, he realizes, because it looks the same. Because when he was coming here regularly, there were always new paintings up on the walls. But he recognizes all of these. Ian’s stopped painting. He stopped painting months ago.

Other than that, everything is as he’d expected. The dim light in the corner, the same old appliances in the kitchen. Maya sits with Ian on the ratty sofa, one jean-clad leg slung over his. Mickey stands there awkwardly in the middle of the room watching them. Ian turns his head so he can whisper right into Maya’s ear, and her eyes dart up to Mickey, wide and red-rimmed and dusky with eye shadow.

“So…he knows everything then?” she asks. Ian shrugs. So does Mickey. He knows by now that Ian will never tell him everything.

Mickey steadies his shoulders and raises his chin. “Maya, I want to pay for Ian’s medical treatment.”

Ian squawks and rolls out from beneath Maya. “You lousy…”

But she shushes him harshly, grabbing him around the shoulders and yanking him back against her. “Wait, what?”

“I want to pay,” Mickey repeats. He holds her gaze, and doesn’t blink even as she forces her hand over Ian’s mouth to stop his steady round of complaints before they’ve begun. “And after that I promise I’ll leave you alone if you want me to. But let me pay for Ian’s treatment. Nothing in return.”

She narrows her eyes, sitting up straighter on the couch and studying him. “Why? What’s in it for you?”

And Mickey realizes that Maya has never been given anything that’s not loaded down with strings. That she’s more broken and battered in ways she will never tell, in ways that nobody will ever want to realize.

“You know why,” he tells her, and, for an instant, he knows she thinks of Karen, and that she knows even better than him.

Ian shoves her off and glares at Mickey. “You little shit.” He starts to get up, opening his mouth to no doubt berate Mickey for playing dirty, for getting Maya involved. The one person he might care enough about to actually care about himself.

Maya swivels around to grab his face in both her hands. Her crimson nails bite into the pale skin of his cheeks. Ian tries to pull away but she only grips tighter, rising up on her knees and pushing her forehead against his. “Ian, he’ll pay for you to get better.”

“Maya…”

She shuts her eyes and breathes deep through her nose. “Ian…you don’t have to…this is our chance.”

Our chance. Because Maya needs Ian’s life even more than he does.

Because what happens when a heart shatters too many times to be pieced back together?

“Maya…” Ian tries again, but she shakes her head, shoulders starting to shake.

“Ian…please…”

Ian’s eyes meet Mickey’s, glassy and blue and resigned, and Mickey knows. Ian might be able to deny himself, deny Mickey, deny everything else the world has to offer, but he can’t do this to Maya.

His eyes go back to her, and he raises one hand to tilt her chin up. “Alright,” he whispers in a raspy voice, kissing her softly on the nose. “For you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	9. No Strings Attached

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploading early today since we're celebrating my mum's birthday tonight and I probably won't be able to do it at the normal time :)  
> 

Maya doesn’t spare Mickey a look when she returns from upstairs and heads into the kitchen to put on the water. She hums gently under her breath, expression soft, and she looks lovelier now with mascara smeared and lipstick rubbed off than she ever could with her fake face. She’s younger, somehow, but also older, gentle, and Mickey wonders what she was like before all this, and he wonders what she has the potential to be. What could she do, if someday she managed to sweep up the glass fragments that must be scattered somewhere around her stomach, sweep them up and piece them together again into the heart they once were. Maybe an aorta or vena carva would be in the wrong place, but could it still work the same?

He goes to her instead of waiting for her to acknowledge him, leaning against the counter and watching her prepare the instant coffee. “Is he still mad at me?”

“Furious.” She nods. “He’ll sulk up there for hours now.”

Mickey sighs and drags his hand along his face, skin catching at the stubble there. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he admits.

“Done what?” she asks, putting on the water and hopping up on to the counter in her usual spot. He can smell the cloying scent of her perfume from here. It’s sweet, yet bitter, and Mickey remembers his mother throwing out perfumes once they’d gotten too old and started to smell like this.

Mickey closes his eyes and massages his temples. Thinking about his mother’s perfumes all lined up on the dresser isn’t useful right now. “He told me not to involve you, and…and I should have respected that.”

Suddenly, a warm hand encloses his own, and he opens his eyes to find Maya’s face inches from his, taking up the whole of his vision. She really is beautiful, Mickey realizes in that second, once you can look past the shell she’s built around herself, and he imagines several thousand young men would murder to be in his position right now. Or several thousand young women, he corrects himself.

He hopes she’s able to find that girl, someday. But now, she’s only found his eyes with her own.

“It was the right thing,” she whispers. “I…I owe you one, right?”

Mickey shakes his head and pulls back a little. “No. It wasn’t right.”

Maya frowns and her nails dig sharply into his hand. “Hey. Look, no. It was.”

When he just sighs, she rolls her eyes and slides off the counter, taking both his shoulders and gripping tight. “Look, hobbit, I know Ian a lot better than you do, right? So when I say it was the right thing to do, just accept that I’m right, you’re wrong, and move on.”

She shoves away from him and heads back to prepare the coffee. Mickey’s eyes flicker to the door to the upstairs. He’d sat down on the couch with Maya at his side for half an hour after Ian had stomped upstairs, listening to brief frustrated shrieks and his name being used in a variety of very creative curses before things had calmed down and Maya had gone to check on him. It had been the guiltiest Mickey had ever felt in his life, and that included the time he’d accidentally hit his unprepared boxing instructor in the nose and broken it.

“Hey.” Maya leans over the counter to snap her fingers in his face. “Would you listen? You did the right thing. Yes, Ian’s gonna go all head-bitch on your ass for the next month, but...”

“But what?” Mickey snaps.

She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “But,” she says, “When he actually realizes that he wants to live, he’ll thank you.”

“But when will he realize?” Mickey asks desperately.

Maya lifts and drops one shoulder. “Dunno. I mean…it’s Ian.” And there’s the explanation. It’s Ian. It’s always Ian.

There is never an answer that will be so terribly vague and yet so accurate.

 

Maya sends him home after an hour. Ian isn’t coming downstairs anytime soon. She walks Mickey to the front door and promises to call as soon as Ian is ready to start discussing the exact details of how they’re going to do this.

“He’s…struggling,” she whispers, staring up at the ceiling as if he can hear her. “You have to understand. He’s known he was going to…” She stops, shivers a little bit, and shuts her eyes. “He’s been living like he was going to die. It won’t be easy, coming back from that. I’m not sure he’ll even realize it completely, not for a couple of days.”

“I understand,” Mickey tells her, and he is beginning to. When someone has worked so hard so that they can accept their own death, it must be ten times more difficult to suddenly have to accept life again. To suddenly have this concept of a future, stretched out in front of you, welcoming you back into its arms like a mother trying to coax back a wayward child—Mickey can’t imagine it. He can understand it, maybe, somewhat, but he cannot imagine it.

The worst part will be later on though, Mickey realizes. It will be once Ian has taken his future, cupped it in his hands and let it burn and grow before placing it back inside his chest. It will be once he has hope again. Because once Ian has that, he also has something that he can lose.

Mickey has already gathered up the responsibility for Ian’s life, lured it in with useless money and secured it with Maya’s words. And he knows that he will never abuse it, never abandon or ignore it. But Ian can’t know that in the same way Mickey does.

Ian doesn’t trust people. And now he’s being forced to trust Mickey with everything.

That will be the worst part.

“You know, this doesn’t mean I like you,” Maya informs him as he steps out into the afternoon light. It’s getting colder now, turning from November to December, even if there isn’t snow on the ground as of yet. “Actually, if you do anything to fuck with him anymore, I will feed you your own testicles, are we clear?”

“Very, thank you,” Mickey replies, and she shuts the door in his face.

Mickey doesn’t expect to hear from either of them for a few days, and his low expectations are rewarded. He goes to work as usual, and finds it easier now, to deal with it all. He listens to Iggy and Joey blather on about their Friday night adventures, and merely hums when they ask him about his own night. What could he say? He’s kept Ian to himself. His own little secret that differentiates him from all the others.

They know something is different. But he doesn’t want to tell them. He can’t tell them. Because as soon as he does there will be the questions, the questions that he doesn’t have an answer to and the questions he wouldn’t want to answer even if he could. The idea of telling people at work, even his best friends, letting them catch a glimpse of Ian like that, letting them know his secrets that he works so hard to hide—Mickey can’t think of a worse way to make himself completely unworthy of Ian’s trust. And he wants that trust. Needs that trust, in order to save him.

So he holds the secret close, and he holds it there for two weeks. In spare hours he heads to the library and opens his laptop up to dozens of tabs, trying to find out everything he can. What it is exactly Ian has, what he’ll have to go through. It makes him feel sick, especially when he finds the pictures of surgeries, and his mind supplements Ian lying there under the slices of scalpels. Sometimes, he has to slam the computer shut, hide the books beneath his pillows, and walk around his apartment, trying to shake the deadness in his fingers and fight the fuzzing behind his eyes.

He wonders if Ian did this, once he found out. If he went and tried to find out everything he could. Probably, Mickey knows. He doesn’t think Ian could take not knowing. He wishes that isn’t the case though—too many of these stories don’t end with happy endings.

It doesn’t make him wonder, not now, how Ian could have given up. It would seem like the only thing

So he stays and works his routine around worry and anxiety every day, weaves it into the hours until it is always there, overlaid on top of everything he sees, until Maya finally calls him. It’s gone eleven when she does, and Mickey is already tucked up in his blankets, eyes half-closed as he watches one of those indistinguishable America’s Next Top Model photo-shoots. When his phone begins buzzing from the nightstand, he thinks he’s dreaming for a moment before the rattle of plastic against wood  sends the phone off the table onto the floor. Mickey starts, then rolls out of bed and snatches it up, flipping it open and pressing it to his ear. “Hello?”

“You need to be here now.”

“Where?” Mickey stumbles to his feet and runs to grab his jeans, strewn across the floor.

“The Urgent Care on Audubon.”

“I’m coming.”

Maya is sitting in the waiting room, filing her nails, when Mickey arrives. There’s not too many people here now—what looks like a family in the corner, parents letting sleepy-eyed children rest in their laps, and a middle-aged man with his nose buried in a wrinkled and torn copy of Sports Illustrated. The nurse at the counter glances up when Mickey enters, but focuses on her paperwork once more when Mickey skirts the desk to head for Maya. “You’re useless,” Maya tells him as soon as Mickey sits down in the seat beside her. “I’ve been waiting here forever.”

“Forty-five minutes,” Mickey counters. “What’s wrong? Is Ian okay?”

She sighs, raises her eyebrows, and continues filing. “Another seizure.”

“Is he alright?”

She turns to stare at him with a vaguely disgusted look. “What part of seizure is hard to understand?”

“Yes, well, obviously he’s had seizures before,” Mickey snaps, “And I don’t think you’ve been taking him into the Urgent Care, so pardon me for being worried!”

She smirks, and turns back to file her pinky nail. “Didn’t have a benefactor before.”

Of course. Mickey forgot that he’s here as a walking checkbook. It’s what he agreed to, and it’s all they agreed to see him as. But he won’t be able to help, not if they won’t listen.

“Maya, I think we need to get him into a doctor. Start him on chemo…or a surgery…something. If you wait much longer, money won’t be able to do much.”

“Yeah, I know that,” she huffs, stowing the nail file in the side-pocket of her purse. “You think I haven’t tried?”

“Well, I don’t think you’re trying hard enough,” Mickey grumbles. He knows what they’re doing is pointless. Oh, but it’s so pointless. But they’ll squabble and fight because they both need to save Ian, and the fact that they both need to save him will set them at odds because they’re both being childish and stupid and Mickey doesn’t particularly want to stop right now.

His quiet words shoot up her spine, stiffen her shoulders.

“No, okay, wow.” She slams her hands down on the arms of her chair and glares at him. “So, just so we have one thing clear here—you don’t know anything about me. You don’t know anything about him. You don’t know us, right? You’re here to sign your name on the bottom of checks, and then as soon as this is over, I want you gone, okay?”

“I know enough about you to know that if we don’t get him into a proper clinic soon, he’s dead,” Mickey hisses, trying to keep his voice down as the middle-aged man lowers his magazine to stare at them. “Okay, Maya? And fine—as soon as this is over, I will disappear and never bother either of you two again. But until then, I am just as much a part of this as you are, and you need to accept that, okay?” He runs his hands through his hair in irritation. “I’ve done some research. These seizures? They mean it’s getting worse, don’t they?” It’s not a question. “He’s getting worse. And you know it.”

Her lip curls up and she leans in until their noses are brushing. “My best friend has a fucking tumor, Milkovich. Of course I know it. I’m the one taking care of him.”

Mickey realizes what he’s said a half second too late, and suddenly he not only wants to stop but suck the words back into his mouth. “Well, that’s not always been the case, has it? You never bothered to realize he was being bullied in high-school until he—“

The slap makes his teeth rattle in his mouth, and he feels the blood immediately well up in his nose and trickle down into his mouth. When he opens his eyes once more, the family in the corner is staring at him like a group of owls on a branch, and Maya is storming out the door onto the street.

“Shit.” Mickey wipes the blood from his lip as he stands and dashes across the waiting room after her. “Maya…”

He shoves open the door and stumbles out onto the sidewalk. The lights of buildings illuminate the faint flakes falling in the air, sparking on his skin, and the air nips at his ears and fingers. Maya is stomping away down the walkway, already beginning to shiver in her flimsy skirt and jacket.

“Maya!” Mickey calls, running after her.

“Stay the hell away from me!” she shouts, not even turning back.

“Maya, I’m sorry!”

She doesn’t stop.

“Can you slow down? I want to talk to you!”

She spins around and continues walking backwards as she flips him off. “No.”

“Maya…” Mickey pushes a little extra speed into his legs and catches her by the elbow as she tries to turn back around. “Maya, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up…”

She snatches her arm back. “You don’t think I don’t feel guilty about that?” she snarls. “You don’t think I look at him every day and think about what could have happened if I hadn’t been so selfish and stupid and blind?”

“I…”

“Every single day I have to look at him and…and I know that if I had just taken my head out my ass for five fucking minutes and helped him…” She scrubs her hand furiously across her face, smearing her mascara across her cheeks. “He could have been something great, you know? And it’s my fault.”

“Maya, I’m sorry,” Mickey whispers. “It wasn’t your fault. That was wrong of me to…”

“We need to get him to a real doctor,” she mutters, pushing her hair off of her face. “We do. I’ll take him tomorrow…”

“No,” Mickey says softly, clasping her hand in his own and stroking across her skin with his thumb. “We will. Maya…I know that you’re strong. I know that. But nobody should have to do something like this alone, and you already have been for too long. Please. I…” He swallows, tasting blood, and works to clear his throat before speaking again. “I really do care about him. And…and I promise I’ll leave once he’s going to be okay, but…but for now…”

She frowns at their hands, and then up at his face. “You really do love him, don’t you?”

Mickey blinks, and nods.

“And you’re going to just…give up? Once he’s okay again, you’ll just…walk away?” She’s studying his face carefully, and Mickey knows exactly what she must be thinking.

Maya loves. She loves and can’t let go, and she always loses, not through choice, but because she’s strung out and disregarded and forgotten. And she can’t imagine walking away from it all, because that sort of love is the only kind she has ever known. Love with conditions. Love that ebbs and flows and disappears. She’s built herself around that kind of love. So she’ll hold it tight and never let that love go, and the idea of ever cutting herself loose from it is impossible.

She’s jealous. She’s jealous because Mickey can love, and lose, and leave, and survive. He might not like it, he might lie helpless in his bed for weeks following, knowing that Ian is alive yet he can never see him again, but in the end he can survive on the very fact that Ian is alive. Maya can’t do that.

“I’ll leave if he wants me to,” Mickey tells her. “But right now, we should probably go back inside. And tomorrow we’ll talk.”

It’s another fifty minutes before the nurse at the front begins asking those difficult financial questions. Mickey takes the clipboard of paperwork and fills out all his information, and gets Maya’s  help with Ian’s medical history. This night is only equaling out to a couple hundred dollars, which is lucky, Mickey supposes. He looked it up online. According to most sources, he’s going to spending around fifty thousand dollars in the coming months, or more. But it’s worth it. It’s just little slips of paper in exchange for a life. And it’s not like he will ever find something more useful to spend money on.

“So…he’s alright?” Maya asks the nurse when he comes to collect the paperwork. “He’s awake?”

“He’s awake,” the man tells them, frowning a little and rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “Are you his relatives?”

“Roommate,” Maya answers.

The nurse glances side to side before leaning over and muttering, “Make sure he starts eating, alright? Would help a lot. And we can fax a write-up to his primary care physician if…”

“He doesn’t have one,” Maya snaps. The nurse raises his eyebrows before flipping to the second page on the clipboard and humming.

“You probably want to get one.”

“No shit.” Maya folds her arms and narrows her eyes.

Mickey sighs and shoots her a glare. “We’re looking into it now,” he tells the nurse. “Thank you.”

The nurse gives an understanding smile and walks back through the doors leading to the offices. As soon as he’s gone, Mickey turns to Maya. “What did he mean by ‘make sure he starts eating’? Don’t you have any food?”

“I’m working on it, alright? They’ve been cutting back on my hours and we had to pay rent…” She’s defensive again immediately, and that won’t help any of them.

Mickey groans and reaches into his pocket once more. He rips out his checkbook and scribbles out an amount. “Right. So I want you to cash this tomorrow. And tell me as soon as you start running low. You two need to eat. And buy some proper blankets.”

She snatches the check from his hands and her eyes widen when she sees the ‘Five Hundred’ scrawled across the line. “You sure?”

“If we save his life only for you guys to starve, that sort of defeats the purpose doesn’t it?”

She snorts and shakes her head before slipping the check into the front pocket of her purse. It’s as much a thank you as he’s going to get, but’s it’s more than enough. She took it.

When Ian finds them in the waiting room, his first reaction is to roll his eyes. “You guys are going to be fucking exhausted tomorrow,” he says as they both jump to their feet. “I could have taken a cab home, you know.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” Maya tells him, standing and smoothing her skirt down her legs. Ian, in contrast, is dressed in his pin-striped pajamas, with his hair stuck up like hedgehog prickles on his head. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, but the fact that he isn’t seizing on the floor is a good sign. “Do you wanna go home now?”

“Yeah, that would be nice.” Ian glances over at Mickey and regards him coolly. “Why are you still here?”

Oh, of course. He’s still angry.

“I regularly wander hospitals at night,” he answers, “Good exercise.”

“Hah!” Ian studies his face before allowing a small smile to touch his lips. “I was wondering what your routine was.”

Mickey shrugs. “Maya and I were thinking of meeting up tomorrow for lunch. Talk about things? Are you okay with that?”

“He’s fine with it, let’s go.” Maya latches onto Ian’s arm and drags him toward the door.

“Maya, slow down!” he yelps, stumbling over his own feet. Mickey catches onto his shoulder and Ian sends him a grateful grin before apparently remembering he’s still supposed to be annoyed. He shrugs off Mickey’s hand and tugs his arm out of Maya’s grip. “I am perfectly capable of walking by myself.”

“Anyway, do you think you could take Maya to that coffee shop we always used to go to?” Mickey continues as Maya shoves the door open and leads them into the open air. It’s still snowing, tiny little flakes that he can barely feel. Ian sighs and leans back against the wall as Maya walks to the edge of the sidewalk and begins waving lazily for a cab. There’s still a fair few driving along the street, but none pull over for her, and she begins stepping further and further into the street to catch the cabbies’ attention, wobbling a little in her heels.

“I guess so,” Ian says, reaching up to massage his temples lightly. “What time?”

“How about eleven?” Mickey asks. “Beat the lunch rush.”

“Alright,” Ian agrees. Maya gives a crow of triumph and dashes back to grab him. There’s a cab pulled up to the sidewalk, and Maya shoves Ian inside before turning back and sending Mickey a salute before shutting the door behind her. The taxi stalls for a few seconds, and then veers back out onto the street.

Mickey shrugs, sticks his hands in his pockets, and starts down the street.

 

Ian and Maya are already there when Mickey arrives at quarter to eleven, seated in one of the corner tables cut off from the main room. Ian is sitting with his legs drawn up, head in his hand, picking moodily at a croissant while Maya dips her finger into the whipped cream of her hot chocolate and sucks it off in a way that would probably be highly effective except for the fact the erotic image does nothing for all three of them. Mickey wonders why she does it.

“Oh, you’re here,” she comments when Mickey pulls up the seat across from them.

“Hi Mickey,” Ian adds, popping a piece of the croissant into his mouth. “Thanks for lunch.” He lifts his eyes and quirks an eyebrow and Mickey knows that Ian has found out about the five hundred dollars.

“I’m going to go grab a coffee first, okay?” he asks, and Ian waves a hand dismissively.

The line for the counter is abysmally short, and too soon Mickey is heading back to the table with no clue how to start this. Maya has moved from the whipped cream to actually drinking by now, and Ian has folded onto the table—he almost looks like he’s asleep, except for the fact that he opens one eye for a half-second when Mickey sits down.

“So…um…” Mickey begins, and Ian shifts so his arms lie crossed on the table with his chin tucked on top. “How do we want to do this?”

“Do what?” Ian mumbles.

“You’re going to see a doctor,” Maya tells him, slurping loudly at her drink. “No more waiting.”

“Isn’t that something I should get to decide?” he asks, brow crinkling in annoyance.

“Well, maybe you could’ve if you weren’t being such an idiot about it,” she replies, and Mickey quickly buries his nose in his coffee.

“I have not been an idiot about it!”

“Yes you have, Gallagher.”

“I have…”

Mickey sets down the coffee and folds his hands in front of him. “So…” he begins, talking over them. “Basically what I figure is that the best way to go about this is to find a doctor. There are lots of oncologists in New York who treat…who treat what you have, so we can do a search and find a doctor you like…”

“Mickey…” Ian sighs, and he reaches a hand over to force Mickey’s down to the table. “Listen to me. This is me, alright? There’s not a ‘we’ in here. You too, Maya. I’m the one with the fucked up head,  and I’m the one who’ll deal with it, okay? If you’re both so determined to help, then fine. Maya, you find a better job where I don’t have to worry about you so damn much. Mickey, you write those checks that you seem God-driven to do and leave it alone. That’s how you can help.”

Mickey leans back, biting on his lip to hold back the tremble. He knows it, he’s getting used to the idea, but every time Ian reminds him of how he means absolutely nothing, how he may as well be constructed of paper money all glued together with no thoughts or words to match, it manages to twist in his heart, aching and sharp.

He remembers when Ian managed to make him feel like more than he is. Now, he doesn’t feel like anything at all.

Maya doesn’t react the same way though. She rolls her eyes and sighs, standing up from the table and whacking Ian on the back of his head as she sidles out from behind the table and begins walking to the counter. “You’re an idiot,” she tells him, “And I’m getting a sandwich. What do you want?”

“Do they have grilled cheese?” he asks her, and she nods. “Right. I’ll have that please. And I’m not an idiot.”

“Whatevs.” She holds up a hand to his protests and walks away.

Ian groans and thumps his head back against the wall. Mickey watches him as his eyes screw shut and he rolls his shoulders back slowly.

“Ian?”

“Yes?” Ian lifts his head back up but doesn’t open his eyes.

“That’s an awful lot for one person to deal with.”

Ian’s shoulders drop, his jaw slackens, his eyes fall open—he’s deflated. He stares at Mickey and shakes his head softly from side to side. “I just don’t see why you’re doing this,” he finally whispers. “Look I…I know you said that…that you love me but…but I still don’t see why…”

Mickey sighs and rubs his hand along his jaw before his eyes flicker back to Ian. “Am I…am I not allowed to just want you to be alive?” he asks weakly.

Ian takes a deep breath, shaky and slow and tremulous. “But that’s not how people work.”

“It’s how I work,” Mickey says. Ian frowns at him, lips parting in confusion and his entire face emanating complete bewilderment. Mickey takes it all in, and continues. “I know you don’t trust me. That’s fine. I probably wouldn’t trust me either.”

Ian snorts and gives a wry little grin of agreement.

Mickey smiles before reaching his hand across the table and tapping his fingers against Ian’s arm gently. “But I am telling the truth when I say that what I want most in this world is to help you. And if that’s all that ever happens, I can accept that. And I will leave if you want me to, as soon as you’re better.”

Ian sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and worries at it as he studies the table. Finally, he mutters, “I know which doctor I want. I...I thought about it when…when I first found out.” The idea of Ian actually going through lists of doctors before coming to realize that he can’t actually afford any of them shifts in his gut in an expectantly painful way.

Mickey nods quickly. “Okay. Well, if you give me their name, we can set up an appointment…”

Ian blinks rapidly and picks at his half-eaten croissant. “Don’t do this,” he whispers.

“Do what?” Mickey asks.

Ian rips the croissant in half and studies the ragged edges. “This.”

“That doesn’t help me much.”

Ian shuts his eyes. “Look, people don’t just give up insane amounts of money and get nothing in return. I mean, I’m sure you’ve looked this up. Tumor treatment can cost tens of thousands of dollars. And…you’re going to just give that to me and leave? People just don’t act like that. And if they do act like that, then something’s wrong with you.”

“Well, alright then, something’s wrong with me then.” Mickey shrugs. “Or something is really wrong with other people.”

Ian laughs, dry and soft, but doesn’t comment.

Mickey slides his fingers down Ian’s arm to his hand, wrapping it in his. “Ian. I’m not…I’m not lying to you. I promise…I’m going to help you get better.”

Ian’s eyes widen and he stares at Mickey, emotions clashing behind his pupils. He swallows once, and his skin pinpricks beneath Mickey’s touch. A group of people enter through the front door of the coffee shops: the bell above them tingles, and the raucous sound of their conversation momentarily makes the noise of the coffee machines and ticking of clocks and click of computer keys from the college students in corners momentarily swell and rise before it settles back down. “Amanda Williams,” Ian says at last in a whisper. “The doctor. Her name is Amanda Williams.”

“Alright,” Mickey says, squeezing his hand tight. “I’ll call her office this afternoon, take care of it.”

Ian’s mouth twitches upwards, and Mickey can’t remember ever finding a smile so breathtaking, small and unsure as it is. “Thank you,” he murmurs. The smile breaches his eyes this time, making the blue spark and shift like the ocean in sunlight, and suddenly, Mickey is more than himself again. He is everything, if just for one moment.

After a minute, Ian takes his hand back and waves at Maya as she returns with food, but the smile stays with Mickey, filling him up and over and making everything he could ever do for this boy worth it.

That smile is all the payment he could ever ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	10. January 6th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this one is going to make you guys happy :)  
> Thank you all for the support, I love the comments <3

Mickey calls the office of Amanda Williams that afternoon, and books an appointment on Thursday for a consultation. He knows he won’t be able to be there, because of his own work schedule, but he also knows that Ian doesn’t want him there, probably won’t ever want him there the way things are progressing. He goes ahead and gives them his credit card information, even though he knows it’s a really stupid thing to do. He’s never seen this place, he doesn’t know this woman, but it’s either that or send Ian and Maya off on their own with access to his bank account, and that would be an even stupider thing to do, he knows. He might love Ian, but he doesn’t trust him. Not anymore.

He calls Maya to tell her the time and place, and it goes straight to the generic voice-mail with the bland-voiced man telling him that ‘that the user is not available’. He hopes she’s out getting food, and wonders if he should print them out a few recipes. Half an hour later he’s a click away from purchasing a crock-pot for them on Amazon before realizing just how meddlesome that would be. If there is one way to surely alienate himself, it is trying to act like a parent to Ian and Maya, like they are errant children incapable of anything. He shuts down his computer and goes to make his own dinner.

He doesn’t hear back from Maya.

 

He still hasn’t heard back from her on Thursday, the day of the appointment. He has no idea  whether Ian ever got there or not, or whether Amanda Williams has promised to help him, or is some sort of elaborate scam artist. He hates it. He hates being just as invested in this as they are, yet being tossed to the side, continually used and then discarded. He hates that he can lose so much, and isn’t allowed control over any of it.

Once he gets home from work, he tries calling Maya again. It rings this time, before sending him back to voicemail. Mickey curses and shucks his tie across the room. He heads for his bedroom and changes into a sweater and jeans before heading right back out the door.

He takes a moment in the elevator to consider his options. He realizes that, with fifty thousand dollars now out of his hands, even if he knows he has funds to back him up, it might be a smart idea to start braving the subway every once in a while. One thought of the state of the subway at five-thirty in the afternoon, however, is enough to convince him that his adventures in public transportation can wait. He hails a taxi instead.

Darling Place is devoid of life when he arrives. No boys on doorsteps, no cars pulling in or out, no strolling couples. Mickey pays the cabbie and stumbles out into the light covering of snow dusting the pavement. There’s a slick sheen of ice leading up the steps to Ian and Maya’s door, and Mickey nearly slips at the top before catching himself on the door handle. His hands scrabble against the wood as he rights himself and then knocks briskly.

“Ian? Maya? It’s Mickey, can you let me…”

The door slams open, and Ian’s face replaces the peeling paint. “Hey,” he chirps. “We’re making burgers, you want one?”

Mickey can’t help but think that he could know Ian for a thousand years, and still be continually surprised by him. He never does what Mickey thinks he will. It’s unnerving, exciting, and every time Mickey can’t help but love him a little bit more for it.

“I don’t want to bother you,” he stammers.

Ian shrugs. “Well, you already are, so might as well eat, right?”

“Thanks for that.”

“No problem.” Ian swings out of the way and ushers Mickey inside before closing the door. “Just throw your coat on the floor.”

Mickey does as ordered. The smell of meat cooking has already permeated the hallway, and he just hear the sizzling of someone working in the kitchen.

“Maya, make some more!” Ian yells, already stomping off down the hall and into the living room.

“It’s not Milkovich again, is it?” she calls back, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

“Hi Maya!” he calls, following Ian into the room.

The smell might be the first thing he noticed, but the most important thing is that there are paint smears on the floor. Canvas is strewn everywhere, brushes tossed haphazardly aside, tubes of half empty paint littering the space from corner to corner. New paintings are pinned up on the walls, still glistening wet and shining, green and blue and purple.

The fact that Ian’s been painting again fills Mickey with more relief than anything.

Maya is working over the stove, grilling burgers over a pan that hisses and spits grease up into the air. She glances over her shoulder to fix Mickey with her eyes for a moment before turning away, apparently bored. The fact that Maya is cooking is another surprise—somehow Mickey could never imagine Maya subjecting herself to such menial tasks.

But again, it would be between Ian and Maya as to who cooks, and he knows Maya wants Ian painting as much as he does, even if she never says it out loud.

“If I’d known you’d come barging in here, I would have just answered the damn phone,” she tells him, pressing a spatula into the burger and making it sizzle.

“Then answer the damn phone next time,” Mickey answers.

Maya begins to reply, but Ian ignores the exchange completely, choosing instead to flop down cross-legged on the floor and drag some tubes of paint toward him along with a piece of canvas. He dabs small amounts of the paint straight onto the back of his left hand, and nabs a dainty paintbrush off the floor. He uses his own skin as a palette, mixing and swirling and stroking the paint from his body onto the canvas, and it’s only seconds before the ghost of a person emerges from the pigments.

“Hey!” Maya barks, drawing Mickey back out of Ian’s movements. “Could you listen for five seconds?”

“Did Ian go see the oncologist?” Mickey fires back.

“I don’t see why you have to be hounding me…”

“Because I’m paying and I want to make sure…”

Ian’s voice cuts them off, soft and simpering and laced with a threat. “Could you two please shut up now? I have a headache, and you guys screaming at each other isn’t helping.”

They both stop immediately, and Ian smiles before diving back into his work. Maya narrows her eyes at Mickey and flips him off.

“And your answer is yes,” Ian adds, and the tension in Mickey’s chest loosens and slides away. He drops to the floor next to Ian and watches as he begins to add details to the face—the eyes, the mouth, the slope of the cheekbones.

“What did she say?”

“Nothing. Took some scans. MRI and stuff. Expensive shit.” Ian sweeps the eyebrows across the face. “She’s gonna call when they have the results.” He stands up quickly, stumbling only a little before righting himself. “Maya, is dinner ready yet?”

“Maybe if I wasn’t doing this all alone.”

“Right.” Ian reaches up and sweeps his hair off his forehead with his left hand. He jumps when he feels the cool touch of paint across his skin. “Oh…” He pulls his hand away and groans. He’s left a perfect smear up his face into his hair.

“I’ll help Maya,” Mickey says quickly. He stands and trots into the kitchen, where Maya shoves the spatula into his chest wordlessly and steps away from the oven. Mickey takes over the burgers while she fetches buns out of the cupboard. She delves into the refrigerator, and Mickey is relieved to see it stocked full of food—milk, eggs, vegetables, fruit. At least they’ve put the money into good use. Maya grabs some tomatoes and a head of lettuce and begins washing them at the sink.

“Do you want onions?” she calls to Ian.

“No,” he answers, “Because if I have them you’ll have them and your breath will set the place on fire.”

“Look, I know you don’t like the cigars but…”

“No onions, Maya.”

Mickey chuckles into the spit and sizzle of oil.

Ian remains the bridge of conversation between Mickey and Maya for the entire night. He’s cheerful, and snarky and witty and everything Mickey can remember from before. It’s like he never disappeared, never got sick, never needed Mickey for his money. It’s like Mickey never told Ian he loves him. Mickey leaves a few hours later with Ian’s promise that he’ll attend his next appointment.

The unpredictability of Ian’s nature may make Mickey love him all the more. But the fact that Ian never mentions the doctor, his sickness, doesn’t acknowledge that he has been at Mickey’s throat for weeks, doesn’t give any indication at all that something has changed between them…it’s frightening. It’s frightening because Mickey doesn’t understand what’s going on in Ian’s head and because of that he has no way to help him.

He wonders if something has changed, and remembers Ian’s fear of the tumor beginning to affect his personality, and feels sick. What if this isn’t Ian at all?

There can be nothing crueler, Mickey thinks as he walks to the nearest subway station, using his phone to get directions, than a disease that leeches away the essence of who you are. That makes it so you cannot trust yourself, can’t even be sure who this ‘you’ really is. And even if the tumor isn’t causing personality change, wouldn’t the fear be just as strong? Because Ian can’t know if how he feels, how he thinks, is his true self talking, or something twisted and sick curled up in his head.

Just who do you become, when confidence in the concept of ‘you’ is suddenly gone? What can you do when the only thing you can trust to tell you about yourself is the history of your actions, from back when you could believe in your own thoughts?

Ian runs from the history of his actions.

Mickey dashes down the steps to the subway and goes to purchase his ticket. He tries to see Ian objectively, erase the brightness of his eyes and the flash of his smile. He thinks about him based only off of what Ian has told him about his past.

A child with a dead mother. A boy once afraid of becoming an orphan. A victim, bullied until he couldn’t face the thought of going to school the next day. A runaway, who couldn’t stand the thought of his father’s disappointment.

Is that how Ian sees himself, every day? And is that all he can see?

Mickey buys a one-way ticket for the green line and follows the signs to the landing, allowing himself to be drawn by the crowd of other people heading the same direction.  Mickey knows he already doesn’t have the most positive self-image. Now, he tries to erase his personality and think about himself in terms of his past.

The thing about remembering your past, he realizes, is that you don’t remember the little things. That time you waved back to the children on the bus. When you stopped and patted the dog tied up outside a store. When you made someone laugh.

The only things Mickey remembers clearly are the things he regrets, because those tend to stick to your mind and cling there, like sea urchins on a rock face. And all he sees in himself is an abominable coward. Too scared to face the bullies at his school, too terrified of that final rejection to confront his father, too frightened to follow in his childhood dreams, content instead to slap on a suit and a smile every morning and watch little numbers dance away with his years.

So how must Ian feel, forced to live out every day a scenario Mickey just imagined for twenty seconds?

The rush of sound assaulting his ears signals the arrival of the subway. Mickey allows the crowd to rush his movements, sending him through the doors and to the back corner. He reaches up and latches his hand to the ceiling bar and holds tight as the passengers settle and the doors close once more. The subway jolts and begins to move.

And he wonders. Wonders how Ian stands it. Wonders how he thinks, how he feels, how he sees himself.

He remembers the broken painted figures, all in sickly yellow, and is pretty sure he knows the answer already.

 

Maya calls him on Monday. Mickey is in the middle of a meeting when he feels the buzz in his pocket, and he shifts uncomfortably and draws the phone out, checking the caller I.D surreptitiously under the table.

The anxiety injects itself into his bloodstream and trickles through his veins in an instant. He shoves the phone back in his pocket and waits for the vibrations to stop. His colleague to his right shoots him an interested look, and Mickey focuses his attention back on the woman giving the presentation of stocks.

As soon as the meeting is over, however, he grabs his briefcase and dashes out the door to his office, dialing back as he goes.

Maya picks up on the third ring as Mickey collapses into his seat. “Finally!” she huffs.

“I was in a meeting,” Mickey says quickly. “Is Ian alright?”

She goes quiet, and all Mickey can hear is the sound of her slow breathing.

“Maya?”

“He’ll be alright,” she says at last, and her voice has taken on that soft quality it does when she’s forgotten about keeping up her shields. “He went back to the doctor today. Thought I should tell you.”

“What did she say?”

Maya sighs. “Got the scans back. It’s…still there. She said s-surgery with chemo would probably be the best way to get rid of it.”

Mickey nods to himself, repressing the quell of fear rising in his stomach. His emotions are the last thing anyone should be worrying about. “Okay. How’s Ian taking it?”

Maya doesn’t say anything for a while, then finally: “I think…I think he hoped maybe it wouldn’t be so serious. When she took the scans…I guess the doctor was optimistic, ‘cause it’s benign, but now she’s talking about months and months of chemotherapy and…he hasn’t come out of the bathroom. He locked himself in hours ago.”

“How’s his prognosis though?” Mickey presses. That is the most important aspect, right now at least.

“I don’t know. Ian doesn’t want me with him for his appointments, and he only told me about the surgery thing before throwing a fit.”

“Do you want me to come over there?” Mickey asks. Her tone grows sharp instantly.

“I don’t need your help Milkovich,” she snaps.

Mickey swivels in his chair to face the window and rubs at his face. “I…I’m not saying you do. But it would make me feel better.”

“Well, my job in life is not making you feel better.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mickey tells her bitterly. “Well, can you ask Ian if I can talk to him? On the phone? Just for a few minutes.”

She sighs again, much more dramatically this time, and mutters, “Lot of good it will do you.”

Suddenly the sound of her breath disappears, replaced by the squeak of hinges and thumping. She must be walking up the stairs, Mickey figures. The thumping stops, and there’s the sound of rapping. Maya’s voice calls out, “Hey Ian? Your animatronic wants to talk to you. I think he might piss himself with worry if you don’t let him.”

There’s a pause, then another squeal of the door opening, and Ian’s voice, low and raspy. “I don’t think animatronics piss, but I understand the sentiment.”

There’s a rustling, and then Ian is loud in Mickey’s ear. “What’s up, Wall Street?”

The old nickname strikes a chord of relief around the area of Mickey’s lungs. “Hey Ian,” he murmurs. “I heard about the doctor.”

“I’m sure you did.” Ian sounds like he’s been crying. He probably has been.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Mickey stands from his seat and strides over to the window, staring out over the buildings and biting his lip.

“Keep paying?” Ian jokes dryly. Mickey doesn’t laugh.

“Do you want me to come over there?” he asks seriously, and he hears his words getting faster and becoming more and more frantic as he continues. “Please, let me know. I can be there in half an hour if you need me to. I just want to know if I can help…”

Ian’s gentle chuckles fade away, and Mickey finds his voice growing weaker again until he slides into silence rubbing his hand over his face. Ian still doesn’t reply. Mickey strains to hear the sound of his breathing, but he can’t. Finally, he ventures, “Ian? Are you alright?”

“You…” His voice is rough, and so soft Mickey has to strain to hear it. “This really is about me getting better for you, isn’t it?” There’s a wonder there, as if Ian is actually amazed that someone would care that much about him, even if Mickey has been trying to pound that sentiment into him for weeks.

Mickey swallows, throat constricting. “Yes, of course,” he mutters.

“Oh.”

Mickey goes back to his desk, clears away some of the papers, and perches himself on top.

“Ian?”

“Yes?”

“I won’t abandon you.”

He hears the sharp inhalation of breath, and then the tender silence. “Alright,” Ian finally replies, sounding close to tears once more.

Mickey smiles, hugging his free arm around his chest. “Now, do you want me to come over?”

“No,” Ian answers immediately, but then, shyer, he goes on. “But…would you…would you want to come to my next consultation? I wouldn’t ask but Maya has work and…and…”

“Of course I’ll be there,” Mickey promises. “When is it?”

“Next Wednesday, at two. It’s nothing much, just…talking about the…the surgery and when I’ll have it and stuff.”

He’ll have to skip work, but Mickey doesn’t give a damn. “Okay. How about I come to your house around quarter to one and we’ll go there together?”

“Sounds good. So…I guess I’ll see you then?”

“I guess so. Um…I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

“Bye then,” Ian says. “Um…thank you, Mickey.” The calls ends.

Mickey slides off the desk and into his chair, smiling to himself, and very, very slowly, begins to cry. He doesn’t know why, exactly, but once he’s started, he can’t find the will to stop.

 

When he arrives at Darling Place the next Wednesday, he is greeted by a grey-faced Ian at the door, wrapped up in three sweaters and a scarf that threatens to engulf his entire head. “Hey,” Mickey says softly. “Are you doing alright?”

“Just fine. Can we go?” Ian shuffles outside and locks the door behind him. Mickey nods, and leads Ian back to the cab he’d used to get there.

Ian doesn’t say a word besides giving the cabbie the address for the entire ride. He just leans against the door, propping his chin up on his hand and staring out the window. Mickey uses his phone to check email, even if all he really wants to do is watch Ian and make sure he’s going to be okay. Finally, the medical center comes into view. The cab pulls up on the side of the street, and Mickey pays while Ian slides out onto the sidewalk.

“Which building?” Mickey asks, as the taxi pulls away. Ian points, and they set off across the lot towards it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Mickey asks again as the door open for them and they slip inside, rubbing the chill from their hands. It’s close to Christmas now, and if the temperature is anything to go by, it will soon be a white one.

“Mickey,” Ian sighs, “I think maybe this will work better if I’m able to accept that I’m not alright, and you stop asking me.”

Mickey flushes. “I’m sorry.”

They head for the third story, and slip into a small door under the sign ‘ONCOLOGY’. It’s a simple waiting room inside, with a single older couple in the corner, clutching at each other’s hands and bowing their heads together.

“Sit down.” Ian’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him towards a chair. Mickey obeys, and watches as Ian goes to the receptionist and leans over the counter to whisper to her. She nods, and pushes a paper across for him to sign. Ian returns and flops down in the seat next to Mickey, and immediately closes his eyes.

Mickey casts around for a magazine and pulls up People from the nearby table. It’s gossipy, obviously, but it’s a relief to be able to fill his head with the woes of celebrities with millions of dollars, to imagine that those are the worst problems you can have—stretch marks caught by paparazzi, gaining ten pounds, a DUI. It seems so simple that way, so unimportant, yet it’s these silly things that fly from mouth to mouth, it’s these names that people know around the house.

Finally, a nurse in a prim white uniform that reminds Mickey of the movies emerges from the door leading into the examination rooms. “Ian Gallagher?”

Ian opens his eyes and stands slowly, and Mickey catches the tremble in his limbs. He reaches out quickly and grabs Ian’s hand, stroking along his skin once with his thumb before letting go. Ian glances down at him in surprise for a second, before giving a weak half-smile and heading for the door.

 

It’s an hour and fifteen minutes before Ian comes back. Mickey spends his time sorting out the payment plan at the desk, playing mahjong on his phone, and reading the jokes sections of Reader’s Digest. Other patients drift in and out, some with families, some all alone. Mickey doesn’t register the click of the door until a pair of feet appears in his vision, and he quickly puts the magazine down.

“Hey.” He smiles up at Ian, whose lips tremble and curl as if he’s trying to reply but just can’t seem to. “Are you ready to go?”

Ian nods, and starts for the door before Mickey’s even stood up. Mickey scrambles to his feet quickly and hurries after him.

He pushes out the door into the quiet hallway, and finds Ian slumped up against the wall, eyes closed and breathing heavily. His fists clench and release helplessly at his sides, and his pulse jumps visibly in the exposed stretch of his neck.

“Ian?” Mickey asks, careful not to get too close.

Ian shivers at the sound of his voice, and slowly draws both hands up to cover his face.

“January sixth,” he mumbles into his palms.

“Sorry?” Mickey rests his back against the wall beside Ian and waits.

Ian’s hands slide back down, and his eyes open, wiped clean of expression like chalk off a blackboard. “January sixth,” he repeats. “That’s…that’s the day they want to…want to do the surgery.”

Mickey sucks in a breath between his teeth, allowing his back to slip a little further down the wall. But he doesn’t say anything. That’s not what Ian needs. Instead, after a moment, he holds out his hand midway between their bodies, palm up.

Ian turns his head to stare at the offering, not blinking. Then, slowly, he brings his hand up and places it in Mickey’s. It’s an anchor. A reminder. The warmth of hand, to tell him he’s not alone in this, no matter how it might feel sometimes.

They walk together down the hallway, hands swinging between them.

 

“Would you maybe like to come here for Christmas dinner?” Ian asks him when Mickey drops him off at Darling Place. They stand together on the top step, Ian’s key already jammed into the lock but not turned. “Or…is your family…?”

“No, no family,” Mickey says quietly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Ian’s watching him, biting at his lip, and Mickey hates that Ian would feel sorry for him. He shouldn’t be that sort of distraction.

“You can come here, if you want,” Ian offers again, beginning to fiddle with the hem of his sleeve. “It won’t be fancy but…but I don’t like the idea of someone being alone on Christmas.”

His eyes flicker to Mickey’s face, and a small grin flits across his lips. He seems so shy, so young all of a sudden, and Mickey can’t do anything but smile back and whisper, “Okay. I’d love to.”

 

On Christmas day, Mickey wakes up late, makes coffee, makes an omelet, and slowly unwraps the small pile of presents he’d kept in the closet. A new watch from his family, a gift card from Iggy, video game and a knit scarf from Joey, and a box of chocolate covered pretzels from Mrs. Daniels next door. He showers, gets dressed, and settles onto the couch to watch Mission Impossible until it’s time to leave.

At four-thirty, he bundles up in his jacket, grabs the little bag which has Ian and Maya’s presents, and heads for the ground level.

The streets are nearly empty, or as empty as you will ever find them, and large flakes of snow have started to filter in through the clouds. Mickey catches a few on his tongue before realizing how insane he looks.

_If all the snowflakes were candy bars and milkshakes…_

The flakes fall to the ground and accumulate on top of the slush and ice already left from the storm two days ago, crystals sparkling dully in the murky sunlight.

The cabbie he finds remains very quiet the entire way. Mickey wonders if he has family at home missing him now, or if he’s all alone today, like Mickey would have been except for Ian. He drops Mickey off at Darling Place without a word, and Mickey stomps through the snow to Ian and Maya’s steps.

The sound of his fist on the door seems louder, now, amplified by the falling snow, and he winces, almost expecting a neighbor to poke their head out and yell at him for being so noisy.

There’s the sound of footsteps from inside, and the door swings open.

“Hey, Merry Chri…” Mickey begins, holding up his bag as a peace offering, but stops when he realizes that the person standing in the doorway is neither Maya nor Ian.

“Um…hello?” he asks.

The girl blinks slowly. “Are you from the North Pole?” she asks, looking him up and down. “You’re tall for an elf.”

Mickey stares at her, taking in the styled blonde hair, the designer jacket and jeans, the spray tan. “No,” he replies finally. “I’m Mickey. Is…is Ian there?”

Comprehension dawns across her face, and she nods. “Yeah, he’s inside. C’mon!” She turns and bounces away down the hallway, leaving the door wide open. Mickey hurries inside after her, toeing off his shoes and shutting the door before following into the living room.

There’s a shoddy strand of Christmas lights pinned right to the wall on top of the paintings, and what looks like a potted shrub in the corner decorated with a popcorn strand. Piled by the shrub is a little group of unwrapped presents—Mickey spies a sweater, some books, and a small vial of perfume.

Somehow, that little shrub is one of the most depressing and uplifting images he can remember seeing in a long time.

Ian and Maya are seated side by side on the couch, sides pressed together and holding tight to each other’s hands. They glance up together when Mickey enters, and Mickey starts when he realizes that Maya is crying, the tears dripping down her eyelashes and down her cheeks.

“Hi Mickey,” Ian greets him, voice husky. “I see you’ve met Karen.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Mickey turns to the blonde, who waves jauntily before flopping down to sit crosslegged on the floor.

“You’ve come at sort of a bad time, I’m afraid,” Ian mutters, snuggling closer to Maya and dropping his head onto her shoulder. Mickey nods, fiddling with the bag in his hands.

Maya shudders, hiccups, and turns her face helplessly towards Ian. She draws her knees up onto the couch, and Ian reaches around with his other hand to pull her into his chest. “I can’t,” she whispers, “I can’t do that.”

Ian pets her hair and shushes her soothingly. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, “It’s okay.”

“Maya, I don’t get it. Why are you crying?” Karen pipes up. “It’ll be so much fun!”

Maya shakes her head wordlessly as Ian raises his head to press a kiss to her hair.

“You should,” he whispers, and she moves her hands to clutch at the front of his shirt.

“I…I…I…” she stammers.

“Is there something I can help with?” Mickey asks helplessly, feeling very much like a forgotten shadow. Should he just turn around and leave? But no, because Maya is crying and he can’t leave her, not now, no matter how much she hates him.

So this is what it looks like when a heart is battered and bruised and finally dissolves completely. This is what it looks like when someone strong takes a hit too many at a vulnerable place and shatters.

Maya raises her head to stare at him, and all he sees in her eyes is hopelessness. She doesn’t give him an answer.

“Maya…” Karen sighs, and pushes up off the floor. She sits next to Maya on the couch with a bounce, and Mickey watches the way that Maya automatically opens up to her, like she’s always done. Offering everything she has only to have it stolen.

Karen isn’t bad, Mickey remembers. She just never learned how to love properly. But suddenly that seems like the worst thing a person could do.

“Maya,” Karen says again, placing a hand on Maya’s thigh. “Please? Please come with me? We’ll have so much fun and Alexander is so nice and I don’t want to be so far away from you!”

“Kar…” Maya lifts her face to stare at the girl, eyes puffy and mouth slack. “I can’t. Please don’t…please don’t go…please don’t make me choose…”

“Why can’t you come?” Karen sticks out her bottom lip in a pout.

Ian sighs, and Mickey remembers that they’ve never told Karen about the tumor.

Maya shakes her head at Karen and whispers, “Karen…I can’t…I can’t leave Ian…”

“But it’s only for a few years! C’mon May…please?”

“Do it,” Ian says, and his voice is harder and sharper than Mickey has heard it ever before.

Maya whips her head around to glare at him. “No. No, I can’t leave you here. I…”

Mickey can’t take it anymore. “Hey!” he snaps, and all three of them turn to stare at him. “What’s going on? Is there anything I can do to help?”

Maya hiccups again and Ian narrows his eyes at Mickey before rolling them and mumbling, “Karen’s boyfriend is moving to Italy to film this movie trilogy. He wants to take Karen and said she could bring Maya too if she wanted. Apparently lesbians turn him on or something stupid like that.”

And suddenly Mickey knows. He knows what’s going on in Maya’s head, and he pities her, even though she would resent it, because either way she chooses now she will lose, and the loss will be just as great on both sides.

What can you do, when the person who has torn and crumpled but ultimately owns your heart asks you to follow? Could you say no?

Would you try that last time, try to prevent them from slipping away completely?

Could you chase them across the world, hang tight with trembling fingers for as many years as you can? Could you be second-best, a shadow to another person, if it meant that at least you were allotted some love, any at all?

Maya would. Mickey knows this. Her heart has been destroyed so many times that she will take any chance she can get, trying to sew her life back together, trying to recreate a fairy-tale and a high school romance. She would follow Karen to the ends of the earth and beyond, waiting and hoping and praying that someday that director boyfriend will no longer be a necessity, that she alone can provide for Karen’s needs, that she can make Karen love her in the way Maya needs to be loved.

How is it fair, then, to ask her to choose between a final chance and the person who waits for her at home, loving her just as much but just not in the way she wants? Because Ian loves Maya, and he needs her, but he cannot fill her the same way that Karen can.

But how can Maya be expected to choose between the two?

Ian watches his face as he thinks, and Mickey knows Ian has read him as easily as he would a kindergartener’s picture book.

Ian’s telling her to go. He wants Maya to have her last chance.

He’ll give her up, if it means Maya can have one last shot at the love she needs. He’ll give her up when he needs her the most because he loves her, loves her so much but in the wrong way.

And Mickey knows what Ian wants him to do. What he has to agree to, because Ian is about to suggest it.

Maya won’t leave Ian. She can’t leave him now—he has no job, nobody here to take care of him. And he needs someone to look after him, because he’s going to have what amounts to brain surgery in less than two weeks, and then chemotherapy for months after.

But there’s one other person who Ian knows will look after him, without thinking about it twice.

“Maya, I want you to go with Karen,” Ian says again. “Italy, right?”

Karen nods enthusiastically.

Ian strokes Maya’s hair and pulls her hands from the front of his shirt. “I want you to go. You need to be with Kar, okay? You need this. She needs this. I’ll be alright.”

Maya stares him down, looking completely unimpressed. “You idiot. You’re not going to be alright. I can’t leave you here! There’s rent and who’s going to look after you if you have another seizure and who will…”

Ian meets Mickey’s eyes, and Mickey nods slightly, heart thumping in his chest as he realizes what he’s agreeing to.

“Mickey,” Ian says. “I’ll go live with Mickey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	11. Cookie Dough Plushy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the late upload- weekend camping trip with no reception.  
> 

A year ago, a nameless stranger found Mickey in a bar once more, took him home, wrapped himself around Mickey’s shoulders and led his fingers across the canvas, saving him in ways Mickey had never expected, teaching him how to pour his emotions out through paint and tears and a hope that he might mean something more.

Now, Ian Gallagher sits at Mickey’s dinner table, softly running his finger along the rim of a glass of sparkling cider, and this time he needs Mickey to save him instead.

“Any New Year’s resolutions?” Mickey asks helplessly, desperate to break the silence that has settled between them since dinner began.

“Not die,” Ian answers, not looking up from his glass. It’s still full, as is his plate, and Mickey has felt too uncomfortable to do anything but take a few bites of potato.

Okay, so maybe Mickey should have expected that answer. Ever since saying goodbye to Maya two days ago and moving his meager collection of belongings to Mickey’s apartment, Ian has been moody and pensive, curtaining his own loneliness and anxiety around himself and hiding like a caterpillar in a cocoon within it. He has curtailed all of Mickey’s attempts at having a normal conversation, and seems perfectly content to curl up on the pull-out sofa and do all of the cross-word puzzles Mickey neglects in the paper, occasionally switching on the television to watch _I Love Lucy_.

Mickey, for his part, has tried to stay out of Ian’s way. He’s earned a week or two more of shutting himself off, Mickey knows. Ian has always seen himself as the abandoner—he left his former life, his father, everything he’d known—and now he’s been abandoned himself, and Mickey thinks that maybe it’s harder for Ian because he understands exactly how Maya feels as well. He’s shouldering double the pain, in a head where he can’t trust his own feelings, trying to hold all the emotions of two people in one head that’s already had too much too bear. It’s fair, that Ian needs time to cut himself out, stay floating in time and letters and sitcoms, just to have time to piece his thoughts back together, allow himself to cope.

So Mickey has stayed confined to his room, occasionally venturing to the kitchen for Pringles and snickers, finally starting on that list of books that he’d told himself he’d read years ago, bought the hardcover version with matching bookmark, only to have them sit and collect dust on his bookshelf. Neil Gaiman is actually quite enjoyable, in a fantastically disturbing way, he discovers, and he remembers when Ian had abused him over his book choices, back when things weren’t easy but bearable.

Now, sitting at New Year’s Eve dinner, Mickey thinks about the Ian he knew a year ago, the Ian he knows now, and how well the first had managed to hide the latter, so well that Mickey realizes he’d never really known Ian at all, even as he fell in love with him.

Mickey knows now that he still doesn’t know Ian, not really. Not in any traditional sense.

But he’s beginning to. He sees it in the way Ian smiles when he figures out a particularly difficult crossword, how he looks over with concern when Mickey coughs. He sees it in the way he loves Maya, in the way he held Mickey’s hand when they walked away from the oncologist. How he rolls his eyes and giggles softly when Lucy does something spectacularly stupid and Ricky is left with a disaster on his hands.

And he wonders what Ian was like, back when he was sixteen and home where he belonged.

He doesn’t hear Ian at first when he asks the question. It’s surprising enough that Ian is talking to him, let alone actually promoting a conversation.

“What?” he says, when his brain catches up with his ears.

Ian shakes his head, allowing a small smile to appear on his lips. “I asked if you have any resolutions.” He takes a sip of cider and picks up his bread.

“Oh.” Mickey raises his eyebrows with surprise before sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and frowning. It’s been a while since anyone has asked him that question. And while with other people he knows the answer ‘exercise more’ or ‘eat better’ would work, he knows that Ian won’t accept them.

He thinks. Finally, he answers, “I guess that I would like to go back to Chicago and visit my family at some point.”

Ian hums and pops some of the bread into his mouth.

“I…I want to enjoy my job more,” Mickey continues, “Or…or find a new one.”

Ian swallows. “I thought you liked Wall Street.”

Mickey wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think I do. I made myself, for a while, but I think now…” He shrugs. “I just don’t see much point to it.”

Ian cocks his head and stares at him, and finally smiles. “I think you’re right. You don’t belong there.”

“Oh?”

“No,” Ian tells him, and he reaches across the table and lays his hand over Mickey’s, squeezing gently, and that in itself is new because Ian does not often initiate contact. Not anymore. “You’re  special.”

Mickey blushes and feels the warm bloom spread in his stomach.

Special. He’s special to someone. He’s special to Ian.

He knows he shouldn’t, but it’s so difficult to suddenly not let that mean everything to him.

“You’re special too,” he says, as if that will somehow make his blush fade. It only makes it worse. But Ian’ cheek flush pink and he ducks his head, trying to hide his grin.

“What about after you get better?” Mickey asks him later, as they finish their meals. “What are your resolutions?”

Ian blinks, stares at his plate, empty but for the remnants of his peas, and shrugs one shoulder. “I suppose…I might like to see my father again.”

Mickey nods, smiles. “I bet he’d like that.”

“Yeah.” Ian stacks his knife and fork on top of his plate. “Maybe…maybe we’ll make a trip of it. You and me. We’re both heading for Chicago, right?”

“I think that’d be fun,” Mickey tells him, and the idea that Ian might want to do something with him, after all this is behind them, might actually want to keep Mickey in his life and go on trips to Chicago with him, fills him up and over and patches over any scars.

He’ll leave, he’d told Ian, if you want me gone. It had always seemed like such inevitability, that Ian would want him to disappear, evaporate and float away like so much of Ian’s life has done. But suddenly there is not only a ‘before’ and a ‘now’, but also a ‘later’, and that is the most precious thing Ian can give to him, because it is the most precious thing Ian can take for himself.

 

Mickey learns more about the surgery in the coming days, what it means, what it entails. Ian talks about it so blandly, so clinical, and Mickey thinks that it must be easier to do so if he imagines he’s reading the information out of a textbook, that it’s happening to someone else’s head. It comes in pieces and short snippets, spread out over hours and days, when Ian looks at him and seems to decide he’s ready to divulge a little more. After New Year’s, they’ve started to interact more, even with Mickey now returned to work—Ian will invite Mickey to sit on the couch with him and watch television, they’ll talk about the books Mickey has been reading, and they begin solving the crosswords together, heads bent close over the kitchen table in the mornings while they sit in their pajamas with coffee in their hands.

It would be so normal, so wonderful and simple and, most importantly, something Mickey can imagine happening in five years, except everything is shattered in those moments when Ian will turn his head to stare at Mickey for long moments before opening his mouth and reminding Mickey that true fairytales don’t exist. This isn’t true love, and Ian is still dying.

He learns, pieces together the small statements, builds a picture. The doctors will try to cut out most of the tumor during surgery, which will remove most of the threat to Ian’s life at once. But the tumor is located in such a place that the neurosurgeon is afraid trying to take out the entire tumor will do permanent damage to Ian’s motor cortex, forever restricting his movements in ways the doctors can’t predict. But if they leave even only a few cells left to fester, who knows what could happen? Ian  begrudgingly admits that while certain aspects of growth led the tumor to be classified as benign, it has been displaying tendencies of a malignant tumor, cancerous, and that’s making treatment all the more complicated. And in the same breath as admitting that what’s happening to him isn’t normal, as far as anything like this can be normal, Ian throws away all the knowledge Mickey has carefully gathered for himself. Worthless. He knows nothing.

Not true. He knows they will remove most of the tumor and then use radiation or chemo or whatever the hell they do to get rid of the rest. Or that’s what they hope.

It could go wrong. So many things do.

Ian sure seems to think it will.

It’s funny, Mickey thinks, because when he first found out, it had seemed like things were moving so slowly, Ian fighting him all the way, but now this surgery is days away and the magnitude of what is about to happen is overwhelming. It happens in bits and pieces, the time passing, and every day feels jerky and unreal, scenes strung together on spit and hope and prayers.

Because when he actually sits down and thinks about it, the idea of someone opening up Ian’s head, actually going in there and trying to cut out a growth in his brain…it’s terrifying. Stuff like this isn’t supposed to happen in real life.

And if Mickey is sometimes rendered completely immobile, lying there petrified at night, tears soaking into his pillow, how must Ian feel?

He wonders if Ian lies there at night as well, crying softly so Mickey won’t hear.

Mickey remembers when he had nightmares as a child. How he would have to fight off pirates and zombies and the occasional dinosaur, and then later how those morphed into the bullies from school, laughing as they hit and kick and taunt until Mickey woke up. But as he’s grown older, he’s realized that those aren’t the real nightmares at all.

 

On January fifth, Mickey calls in sick. Ian is still asleep on the pull-out sofa when Mickey sneaks into the living room. He’s buried under five different quilts, still a caterpillar in a cocoon, even if now he uses quilts instead of loneliness to save himself from the world. His face is relaxed, unlined, and he seems so much younger like this. Mickey suddenly remembers that Ian is someone’s child. He once was held by his mother and mother, cuddled and kissed and cared for, and now all he has is himself.

That hurts more than it should.

Ian lost his mother when he was eight.

Mickey swallows down the thought and lets it sit heavy in his stomach as he makes tea. He tries to be quiet as possible, because he figures the more time Ian can spend today not having to be aware of what happens tomorrow, the better.

He’s eating his Cheerios when Ian begins to stir, grumbling and tucking himself further beneath the blankets. Mickey glances up, spoon hanging out of his mouth, as Ian pokes his head up and stares at Mickey with sleepy eyes. “Morning,” Mickey tells him softly, and Ian blinks twice before shuffling out of the blankets, shaking them off like a dog shaking off water. His hair is tousled and tangled, his skin blotchy with heat and sweat, and the pinstriped pajamas only serve to highlight the sudden youthfulness of his movements.

Mickey wishes that Ian still had his mother to hold him. Because Ian needs to be held, and Mickey knows he is not the one to do it.

He wishes he was. He hopes that maybe one day, after trips to Chicago, that he might be the one to wrap Ian up in his arms, let him be safe, let him know that it’s okay to let his strength fail him every once in a while, because Mickey will always be there to catch him, and when he opens his arms, Ian will have transformed into a butterfly.

“Do you want tea?” he asks. Ian nods, grabbing one of the blankets off the pull-out bed and wrapping it around his shoulders before shuffling into the kitchen.

Mickey prepares his cup wordlessly and slides it across the table to Ian. “Do you want something to eat?” Ian grabs the mug and holds it beneath his nose, the steam blooming across his skin. He shakes his head slowly, softly. Mickey understands. But Ian needs to eat—he won’t be able to after tonight, because of the surgery, and afterwards it will be hospital meals for at least a week if not longer, often of the clear liquid variety.

“Is there something that you would like to eat later?” he asks gently. Ian sighs, the gesture sending a puff of steam up from his mug.

“I guess…ice cream would be really good.”

“Okay,” Mickey agrees, smiling. He gets up, goes to the counter, and pushes the little bottle of pills towards Ian. “Med up.”

Ian makes a face, but swallows down the pills without comment.

“Any particular type of ice cream?” Mickey asks.

“Cookie dough please,” Ian replies, smacking his mouth to rid it of the bitter taste of the pills.

“It’s a deal.”

Mickey leaves Ian to his crossword and goes grocery shopping that afternoon. He doesn’t like leaving Ian alone, but he also realizes that his presence won’t deter Ian from worrying, so he might as well get food. In fact, Ian will probably be grateful for the solitude—he won’t be getting any for weeks now. Not with the hospital, not when he comes home and needs to be taken care of and…

 _Not when he comes home_. Home. This isn’t Ian’s home, Mickey has to remind himself. He can’t delude himself into imagining a morning where he might wake up with Ian’s head beside him on the pillow. That will only make the empty mornings hurt even more.

He buys a large tub of cookie dough ice cream, the largest he can find.

 

When Mickey gets home, Ian grabs the ice cream from the bag as Mickey puts away the bananas, and retreats back to the couch, burying himself under all his blankets once more, like Gollum in his cave, curving his body around it and hunkering over like the ice cream is his only child. Mickey smiles and goe to grab a spoon from the drawer. “You might need this,” he says, walking over and handing the spoon over.

Ian takes it, blushes slightly and mumbles, “Thanks.” He glances down at the ice cream, glances up at Mickey, glances back down again. “Why don’t you join me?”

“O-okay,” Mickey replies after a pause. He goes to grab another spoon and sits carefully next to Ian on the couch, not wanting to get too close. Ian rolls his eyes and scoots closer, so they hold the tub of ice cream together.

“You want to watch a movie?” Ian asks after a moment of awkward silence in which not one of them dares to actually pop the lid on the container.

“Sure. Which one?” Mickey rolls of the couch and walks over to the cabinet, where he keeps his collection of DVDs.

“Something cute and sweet and happy,” Ian orders with a grin. Mickey grabs a movie and holds it up.

“This work?”

Ian raises one eyebrow. “ _Love Actually_?”

Mickey shrugs. “Yep.” He can remember watching it with his mother, back when he was young and some of the plots flew right over his head. He gets it now, but he still remembers the feeling of warmth, of love, of being a big boy who’s allowed to watch grown-up movies and snuggle and eat popcorn with his mother on a snowy day.

A slow smile spreads across Ian’s face. “Sounds perfect. Get back here.”

They sit side by side, taking turns at digging their spoons into the ice cream and shoveling it into their mouths, watching the television with wide eyes. Ian eats like the ice cream has personally offended him with its presence, and stuffs his cheeks full, sometime whining when the sharp pangs of brain freeze hit him, which makes Mickey laugh into the crook of his elbow. Somehow Mickey has ended up under the blankets as well, and occasionally his leg will brush against Ian’s, feather light until one or both of them shifts away. Mickey has to blush out of reflex when they reach the part with porn being filmed, but Ian laughs loud and long at the ridiculousness of it all.

They’re about twenty minutes from the end when Mickey feels a weight on his shoulder, and the brush of hair on his cheek. Ian curls up into him, eyes drooping, and still mouthing weakly at his spoon.

“Tired?” Mickey asks, not even trying to keep the amusement from his voice.

“Shut up and let me use you as a pillow. You’re plushy.” Ian grumbles.

Mickey purses his lips and tilts his head to the side. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

“Yes,” Ian replies instantly, and yelps as Mickey smears ice cream on his nose with the back of his spoon. “I was kidding, you asshole!” He rubs his face into Mickey sleeves. “There. Now it’s on you.”

“Very mature,” Mickey chuckles.

“I never said I was,” Ian mutters, settling back down. Mickey smiles, pats Ian’s hand, and sits there, barely daring to breath, as Ian falls asleep on his shoulder.

He might not have the ability to transform into a butterfly, not quite yet, but for now, this is close enough.

 

The morning of, Mickey lets Ian sleep in. Ian isn’t allowed to eat anything, so breakfast is cut out of the schedule, and Mickey figures Ian will have less time to work himself up into a panic if he’s still waking up on the ride over to the hospital. About an hour and half before they have to be at the hospital, Mickey pads over to the pull-out and very lightly places his hand on Ian’s shoulder. Ian stirs and turns his face into the pillow, grumbling.

“Come on Ian. Time to get up,” Mickey murmurs, and Ian lifts his head to stare blearily at him. “Hi there. Welcome to the land of the living.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious.” Ian yawns, and rolls out of the bed.

“Go take a shower,” Mickey tells him fondly.

 

This is what Mickey understands—Ian has a tumor in his brain. Today, the surgeons will sedate him, cut his hair, open his skull. They’ll cut away as much of the tumor as they can, and then a surgeon  will place Gliadel wafers where the tumor once was, or so Ian tells him, which Mickey finds out are a type of chemotherapy drug. Then they’ll close his skull, and Ian will be sewn up again, hopefully ready to continue his treatment once he recovers. He’ll be eased out of the anesthesia over several hours, Ian says, but Mickey won’t be able to see him until the next day. He’s not family, after all, no matter how much he wishes he could be. Ian doesn’t say that part out loud of course, but Mickey wonders if he knows how true it is.

Mickey tries to think about it, and rebels. The idea of Ian actually lying there under a scalpel makes him feel sick, gets his stomach churning and eyes flickering with spots. He spends the taxi ride over to the hospital with his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window, Ian mirroring him on the other side, and it’s only when the taxi is pulling up to the complex that Mickey realizes that their hands ended up entwined between them, pulling tight and clutching hard.

He walks Ian up to the surgery center, waits with him while they process the paperwork. Mickey signs away his money thoughtlessly, not even paying attention to the thousands of dollars that just passed through his hands. They sit side by side, and Mickey tries not to cry as he feels Ian start to shake beside him, eyes shut tight and lip trembling. Ian scrunches his face tight, like it will hold back the tears, like if he tries hard enough then everything will disappear. And when the nurse comes and calls his name, Ian stands up with Mickey, wraps himself into Mickey’s arms and wraps himself in tight, but when he finally pulls away, he’s not a butterfly, not now.

He’s just a man, and he doesn’t know how to fly.

 

Mickey can’t stay at the hospital, because in every other person anxiously waiting in those rooms he sees only himself, and what he could be. But he can’t be at home either, because the sofa-bed is still unmade and everything speaks of Ian to him, and the memories, even with how few they are, sinuate themselves into Mickey’s ears, his eyes, his nose, and make him remember the future they could have had.

He goes to work instead, claiming that he felt better at lunchtime and was willing to come in. The numbers are comforting this time, not boring, always the same. A one does not all of a sudden become a two. A six has never died on him. A seven has never broken his heart. He tries not to think of scalpels. Tries not to imagine Ian’s face, lax under the anesthesia, the endotracheal tube slid down his throat. He lets the ones and the twos and the sixes and sevens take him in, welcome him into normalcy and this strange feeling of ‘not hurt’.

He dreams that night of butterflies, when exhaustion actually opens the door to sleep.

 

Visiting hours start at 9:30, and Mickey is there, sitting in the waiting room with his hands twisting in his lap. It’s come ten when the nurse comes to him, smiling softly.

“Mickey Milkovich?”

“Yes?” Mickey leaps to his feet, knowing how desperate he looks, unshaven, in sweatpants and sweatshirt with messy hair and the smell of three cups of coffee on his breath. “Is…is Ian okay?”

She nods, reaching out to touch his shoulder, ground him. “He’s fine. The surgery went very well. No swelling, and his mental functions are functioning correctly. He’s awake now, if you want to see him.”

“Yes please,” Mickey breathes. Once he can see Ian, know that he’s alright, know that even if this isn’t over, that Ian is alive in front of his eyes, then maybe he can stop the throbbing behind his eyes.

The nurse nods and leads Mickey through the door. He follows blindly, not really registering the passage of hallways, the doctors and nurses with carts and clipboards, the thrum of electric hospital lights. And then the nurse is opening the door and Mickey can actually see him, lying there attached to what seems like hundreds of tubes and wires under the lights, but with the steady beeping of a heart monitor and _not dead._

The nurse gestures for him to move forward, and Mickey tiptoes towards the bed. Ian’s eyes are closed, his face half obscured by bandages, but it’s him, it’s him, he’s really there.

“Ian?” Mickey whispers, creeping forward and touching Ian’s hands with the very tips of his fingers. “Ian, can you hear me?” Ian was awake, she had said, so why isn’t he awake? What’s wrong?

“He can hear you,” the nurse behind him murmurs, and Mickey turns to see a frown appearing on her face. “He was awake five minutes ago…he shouldn’t have gone under again so soon…”

Oh God. What if something happened? What if something happened in five minutes, and Mickey doesn’t know what that could be but what if it happened anyway and oh fuck, oh fuck…

Mickey wraps his hand tight around Ian’s, raises it, clutches. “Ian? Ian?” he calls, voice growing louder as he panics. “Ian, please…open your eyes…”

His entire body shudders with relief as Ian’s eyes flicker and open, slowly, slowly. Each muscle quivers and shakes and melts, and Mickey wonders vaguely what that means when Ian can make him more scared than he’s been in years within the space of thirty seconds.

“Ian? Hi. How are you…how are you feeling?” Mickey asks, lowering himself into the chair by the bedside as the blurriness in Ian’s eyes flees into the corners and vanishes. Ian turns his head a little to the side to stare at him, a small frown spreading across his face, the speed of a glacier. The bandages around his head pull and stretch at his skin in strange ways, deepening the wrinkles on his forehead, making his eyes and cheekbones stand out gaunt and stark. The cleanly white of the bandages forces shadows beneath his eyes into focus, and where Mickey might have looked on Ian as suddenly very young two days ago, now he looks so old, much older than he should be forced to be, forced by something he can’t control but what controlled him entirely. Little tufts of hair poke out from between the wrappings, like the down of little birds, soft and fluffy, and the contrast between his face and the gentle frills of hair suddenly makes Ian ageless, too young and too old all at once but never what he needs to be. Never what he deserves.

Ian starts to speak, voice crackly and barely above a whisper, a voice that screams for water yet knows it can’t handle it. “Who…”

“Yes love?” Mickey breathes, the word rising naturally to his lips, leaning forward so Ian doesn’t have to try so hard. Ian stares up at him, shakes his head.

“Who are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	12. You Suck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this <3

What do you do when you’ve begun to give yourself hope, started to fool yourself into thinking everything could be okay someday, or if not okay then at least better than now? And then ‘someday’ comes and everything is just worse, worse than ever, and you can’t think of what to do, because you never allowed yourself to imagine it. There is no plan, suddenly, and you’re just free-falling through space with nothing to grab hold of, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole except there is no light, no charming white rabbit, and no end, because the only ending you’d been able to think of has disappeared and all that is left is a black hole, inescapable.

Mickey wonders how long you can survive in a black hole without suffocating.

“Mickey, I was joking.” Ian’s voice is harsh, annoyed, exasperated, and it doesn’t do anything to make Mickey feel better. Mickey turns away, so he can scrub at the tear tracks on his cheeks without Ian seeing.

“Mickey, come on, say something!” Ian tries again, and Mickey wonders if he’s projecting the slight franticness into his words, or if Ian has decided to actually care about his feelings for five minutes now. Because that would be a refreshing change from the norm.

“Mickey?” Ian huffs, and Mickey knows he’s rolling his eyes. Because Mickey is stupid. He’s always been so stupid and Ian knows it and sees it and that’s why he’ll never care. Because Mickey is an idiot and will always be one.

“Would you at least look at me?” No, he won’t. Because if he looks at Ian he’ll start crying again, and look like even more of an idiot.

“Fine.” Ian snorts, and there’s a long pause after that, as Mickey stares out the window and tries so, so very hard not to break. The sound of nurses and doctors outside, bringing medications and meals, cuts through the silence with the jingle of metal wheels, the hum of lights.

 

 It’s been three days since Ian’s surgery now, and this is the first time Mickey has been able to see him, not because of doctors or schedules, but because Mickey couldn’t even handle the thought of seeing Ian again after what happened. And even now, he’s still swallowing down the tears, because he’s still reeling over the sudden shift, still stumbling after the rug has been pulled out from under his feet and thrown in his face.

He’d been stupid. He’d thought Ian cared.

When Ian had asked Mickey who he was, it had felt like everything had suddenly smashed apart. Like one of those glass figurines, the ones Mickey would see when his mother took him to the Craft Fairs as a child, before she became so wrapped in her work. So tiny, exquisite, sometimes imperfect with little bubbles trapped in the glass, hidden away in the corner of a booth but still sparkling. Mickey had knocked one over once, young and fumbling and too eager to touch. A little bird, perched on a branch, he remembers. It had shattered all over the floor, shards still catching sunlight. His mother had smacked his  hand for not listening to her and pulled him away, but even as much as a mother’s scolding can hurt when so young, it was the image of the broken glass still shimmering on the ground that made tears burn in his eyes.

It was like that, except he’d held the pieces in his hands, and they’d cut into his skin and made him bleed as he tried to glue everything back together, crying even as the nurses tried to tell him it would be alright. And then Ian had rolled his eyes, croaked out that he was kidding, and it turned out that the little bird was still whole on its branch, and Mickey was just grasping at air, air that cut and burned and choked, and he couldn’t do it.

Finally, Ian speaks again, and his voice is very small. “I’m sorry.”

But Mickey can’t know if he means it. He doesn’t even know why he’s here right now.

“Happy?” Ian asks.

“No,” Mickey grumbles, crossing his arms tighter across his chest and staring resolutely out the window.

“Oh come on…”

“Ian,” Mickey snaps, “Don’t.”

Ian sighs and thumps his pillow.

Finally, Mickey groans and buries his head in his hands. “Why would you do that to me?”

Ian doesn’t answer. But Mickey still can’t look at him right now.

“I just…I don’t get it,” he whispers, and he knows his voice sounds wretched. “I mean…was that your first thought coming out of surgery? ‘I wonder how I can fuck with Mickey today’?”

“No,” Ian mumbles into his pillow.

“Oh really?” Mickey he hears his own voice grow higher, as he fights against the lump building in his throat. “Did you think I would laugh, Ian? When all of a sudden you wake up and you don’t know who I am? Was that funny to you?” He stands up, running his hands through his hair and looking everywhere but Ian, still stuck in his bed. “You know…I know you don’t care, you don’t give a flying fuck about me, but I loved you. I really did. And…and can you imagine how much that…that hurt, thinking that…that…”

He slams his hands down on the windowsill and stares outside. “How would you have felt if your dad woke up from his heart attack and couldn’t remember you, huh?” he whispers. “And…and you…”

Ian speaks up, voice sullen. “If you’d actually listened to me you’d know that my memory wouldn’t have been…”

“I don’t care!” Mickey screeches, whirling around, and Ian has shrunk back into the pillows, pale and thin and actually looking frightened. “You knew I didn’t know that! You knew! What are you trying to do, huh? What was the point?”

“I…” Ian starts, but now Mickey’s gone, all the words that have built up in his mouth spilling out into the air and he can’t take them back, not now, not now that the dams have burst and the water is spilling out over the world.

“Was there even a point, or were you just doing this to have a laugh? Fuck, Ian, you are just so fucking selfish at times and I can’t stand it, Jesus Christ, how can you just do that to people, I don’t get it!” He tears his eyes away from Ian’s face, tries to force back his rational self which is screaming at him to not upset Ian, not when he’s like this. But even the simple expression on Ian’s face is enough to remind him that as much as he wants to yell and scream and stamp his feet at the sheer unfairness of it all, he can’t. Not now. He takes a shuddering breath, rolls his shoulders, and studies the blankets on Ian’s bed, as if the answer to what he should do now is written across them in bold black marker. His voice comes out soft, but steady. “And I…I tried, you know? But it’s really hard when all you do is just take and take and take from people and then act like it doesn’t even matter, and then you do, and it’s so confusing and I don’t know how to feel and…”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Ian interrupts, and suddenly Mickey realizes how very vulnerable he looks, pale and thin, outlined against the pillow with eyes wide. He looks better, now, at least, than when Mickey had first seen him, his eyes brighter, color returning to his lips and cheeks. But it all seems so dead, now.

A butterfly, fully formed but still drying in the sun, unable to fly, and so easily smashed.

“Nothing,” Mickey whispers. “That’s the problem.”

And Ian smiles, the motion just barely tugging at his mouth.

Mickey sighs, and sits back down, waits for something to make sense. “Can you tell me why, please?” He sounds old even to his own ears. “I just need to know.”

The smile fades away, and Ian blinks hard, turning his face away as much as he is able. “I guess…” he whispers, “I guess I just needed to see…what you would do.”

“And why… _why_?” Mickey asks.

Ian looks up at him, stares, and he’s alive and there and real but the problem is that Mickey realizes now that he can fall out of love. He hasn’t, not yet, but suddenly the realization is there, the idea that not all romances can last, not all yearning hearts will yearn forever.

And he can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

And Ian says, “You _cried_ for me Mick.”

 

The thing about crying is that Mickey doesn’t do it very often. He stopped seeing much of a point to it years ago. He doesn’t understand why all of a sudden he can’t seem to stop.

Mickey goes home to his apartment that evening, and realizes that he’s already forgiven Ian. By the very fact Ian was able to give him a reason, no matter how vague. The fact that Ian can explain why he did it, even in the privacy of his own head, is enough.

The idea that Ian could do something like that, something so cruel, to Mickey, is inconceivable. Mickey still reels from the fact that Ian would toy with him like that, pretend not to remember him, even if only for a second.

Yet, he did it for a reason. And Mickey knows that if Ian has a reason, it is one that makes it worth it. Because Ian does so many things without reason, or at least without even admitting to himself that there is one. And the fact that he can hurt Mickey so easily, but have a reason for it, makes it better.

Because if Ian had a reason, Mickey knows, then it can’t have been easy for him to hurt Mickey at all.

 

“Why was that important?” Mickey asks, after a week of thinking about it. Ian is lying in his bed, now relocated to the recovery floor and after an hour of physical therapy. He’s exhausted now, Mickey can tell, limbs heavy and face slack with exertion. Mickey finds this is the best time to come, right when Ian is done with his therapy—he’s mellow, tired, gentle. He’s getting better now, stays awake for longer periods of time than right after the surgery, and Mickey loves these moments, when he can just sit in the chair and talk to Ian. Not even necessarily with him, but at him, because that’s all Ian needs, and Ian will just roll his eyes or sigh or smile, and that’s all Mickey needs in return.

Maybe he can fall out of love, but he hasn’t yet.

Ian looks up at him, lifts an eyebrow.

“That I cried,” Mickey elaborates, “Why was it important that I cried?”

Ian rolls over onto his side—the incision near the top of his head is healing nicely, and he’s allowed free movement now. He pillows his head in his folded arm and blinks up at Mickey, like a lover. “You could have left,” he finally says, voice soft and slurred. “When you thought I…I couldn’t remember you, you started crying. And…trying to tell me who you were and…and you told the truth. You could have lied—told me you were my boyfriend or something.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Mickey interjects, but Ian keeps going.

“And…I guess…I wondered if you would leave. And I…I needed to see if you would.”

“I thought we’d established already that I’m not leaving,” Mickey reminds him gently. Ian shrugs.

“People make promises that they can’t keep.”

And Mickey knows Ian is referring to himself. Because how can he trust anyone else when he knows what a person is capable of?

“Would it…would it make you feel better if I…if I wrote you a check? And you could pay the money yourself? That way, you’d have the money and wouldn’t have to worry about me…leaving,” Mickey tells him.

Ian frowns slightly, lips parting with a sad sigh. “No,” he whispers. “It wouldn’t make me feel better at all.”

“Why not?” Mickey asks.

And Ian looks away, and whispers, so soft Mickey can barely be sure he heard it right, “I could still lose you.”

Mickey feels his eyebrows lift with surprise, his mouth twist with bewilderment. And now once again everything is turned around and all muddled and blurry. “Why does that matter?”

Ian’s eyes seek out his, bright and clear and broiling with turmoil. “Please don’t make me say it,” he begs.

So Mickey doesn’t.

 

Another week, and Ian is home. _Home_. Because for some reason the concept does not seem so foreign anymore. Because even if Ian can’t say it, the words are still strung between them, like dew on a spider web, delicate, fragile, but sparkling.

These last few weeks have seemed like a dream to Mickey. He knows it’s a cliché, but he can think of no other way to describe it. Everything is blurry in his mind, half-remembered snippets of conversations, the hours all squished together and compacted, running together like ink droplets on paper. He suspects a lot of that time has been blotted out by tears. He’s allowed himself to cry. More than he has in years. First with the hurt, and then the confusion, and then some more because it’s been so long since he’s allowed himself to cry for the sake of crying and it feels like a valve has been released and he can’t stop, not until his throat is raw and his eyes practically swollen shut.

He remembers learning when he was young that little boys are not supposed to cry. Only little girls. As if little boys can’t hurt just as bad. And then soon the little girls were told not to cry either.

What a terrible thing, he thinks, that anyone should be told not to cry. As if crying is a crime.  Maybe people would be a whole lot less screwed up if they were allowed to cry without feeling ashamed of it.

He mentions this to Ian the first night he’s back, eating soup on the couch and solving Sudoku puzzles, because he’s certain that Ian will understand. Ian just stares at him for a long time before putting the soup down and holding his arms open.

Mickey raises his eyebrows and shuffles a few feet closer. “Ian?”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Offering to hug you.”

“Why?”

“Because maybe if more people hugged each other, that would make it all a little bit easier.”

Mickey can feel his forehead creasing with concern as he lowers himself gently into Ian’s arms. It’s funny, because right now, Ian feels so much stronger than he does himself. But then, Ian has always been stronger. Mickey has known that since the beginning.

Ian takes Mickey in his arms, and for once, it’s nice to be the butterfly. He’s warm beneath Mickey, steady, solid. He pulls and shifts until they’re lying lengthwise on the couch, Mickey tucked between Ian and the back cushions. Mickey can feel Ian’s heartbeat beneath his fingertips, a steady lub-dup, like music. Ian rests his cheek against the top of Mickey’s head.

It’s a future, like this, a future wrapped up in pretty paper with a bow on top.

“Ian?” Mickey asks after a moment.

“Yeah Mick?”

“What is this?”

“A hug, Mick.”

“Is that all?”

Ian doesn’t answer for a long time, but he wraps his arms a little tighter, holds a little closer. Finally, he sighs, chest rising and falling beneath Mickey, like a mountain shifting. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Mickey tells him.

“Okay?”

Mickey lets a small smile touch his face and reaches out to pat Ian’s hand. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

“I love you Ian Gallagher,” Mickey says to himself that night, mostly because he needs to hear it more than anything. He needs to say it, to confirm it to himself, and he knows it’s alright, because the words do not taste like ash in his mouth.

For the first time, he allows himself to wonder if Ian thinks about him in the same way.

 

The problem with figuring things out is that things change.

They change when Ian goes in for his first radiation treatment. Because suddenly everything has started back up again.

Because this isn’t over. No matter how they might try to delude themselves.

 

Mickey knows he has to start back at work again. He’s missed so much, and he knows his bosses are beginning to get annoyed.

He hates it. He hates that he has to go back and rejoin a world of the privileged few with good jobs and nice apartments and big, fat insurance policies, while Ian stays at home, tries to recover, tries to bind himself in life once more.

He hates that he can’t be there when Ian goes into the hospital for his radiation treatment. He wants to, wants it so badly he imagines he can actually feel the particles of his body trying to pull him away from his desk, back home, back to the hospital, back to Ian where he belongs. But he goes, and every night he comes home, and Ian looks a little bit more exhausted. Each treatment only takes a few minutes, while Ian lies there under the laser, and his oncologist is optimistic, but that doesn’t stop Mickey from worrying, and it can’t stop how it changes Ian. Three weeks, Ian tells him. Three weeks, every weekday, and it should be gone.

The fourth day, Mickey wakes up in the middle of the night to the sudden flare of light in the bathroom. He rolls out of bed, rubbing at his eyes, and stumbles across the floor to find Ian hugging the toilet, face white and body covered with sweat as he throws up the entire contents of his stomach. Mickey sits beside him and wipes his forehead with a cool cloth, one arm wrapped around Ian’s shoulders to prevent him from toppling over.

“You should go back to bed,” Ian croaks, even as he clings to Mickey’s shoulders, rests his head against the warmth of Mickey’s bare chest. “You have work tomorrow…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mickey tells him, and he turns his face away as Ian pitches forward and retches up stomach acid before reaching out and dabbing the cloth across Ian’s face. “This does.”

He waits until it’s been ten minutes since the last time Ian threw up, before he strips Ian’s sweat stained shirt from his skin, washes him down with warm water and gently guides him through a rinse of mouthwash. Ian is lax, half-asleep, and incoherent. Mickey knows that makes it easier, that Ian is too weak now to fight Mickey’s help, but he hates it all the same. He helps Ian out of the bathroom, and takes him to his own bed, instead of all the way back to the sleeper sofa. He folds Ian under the blankets, strokes the hair back from his forehead.

Ian’s eyes are still closed, but he moves his arms up slowly until his hands and gripped tight around Mickey’s waist, and he tugs weakly. Mickey follows, allows himself to be pulled onto the bed and right next to Ian, skin to skin, heartbeat against rapid heartbeat.

“Mmm…” Ian mumbles, hiding his face against Mickey’s neck, breath hot on Mickey’s collarbone. “You suck.”

Mickey grins, hand finding its way to the back of Ian’s head, right below where his hair was clipped away to allow for the surgery. He holds him steady. “Why do I suck?” he asks with a soft chuckle.

He can feel Ian smile against his skin when he answers sleepily, words slurring together in a jumble of consonants as he slips into unconsciousness. “For making me fall in love with you.”

 

What do you do when you’ve started to fool yourself into thinking everything could be okay someday, and if not okay, then at least better than now? And then ‘someday’ comes and it’s more incredible than you ever could have imagined. There is no plan, but that no longer matters, because you might be falling but suddenly there is someone there to catch you.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	13. Breakable

Mickey wakes up with Ian lying on top of him. It takes him a moment to realize, sated with sleep and warm from Ian’s body, but eventually the realization trickles in, the fact that for the first time in years he’s waking up with someone in his arms.

Ian’s face is buried in his neck, his arm and leg slung out over Mickey and tying them together. Mickey can feel the press of Ian’s nose against his skin, the flutter of his breath, slow and steady as he sleeps, the weight of him pushing against Mickey’s chest, the cool tips of his fingers sliding down his sides as he stirs and then settles. Mickey can feel the velvet of Ian’s skin against his, so warm and overwhelming, and he can’t believe that this is actually happening, so sudden, right when everything got so confusing. Ian’s so soft, so quiet and unaware, and completely vulnerable in a way that is both incredibly sexy and overwhelmingly terrifying. Mickey almost doesn’t dare to breath.

Suddenly, the little glass bird is whole in his hands, a breakable thing, and he doesn’t know what to do next, besides hold tight and feel Ian against him while he can, because the breakable things don’t last very long.

Ian stirs again, mumbling to himself and nuzzling his face deeper into Mickey’s neck. His arm tightens around Mickey’s stomach and pulls them tighter together, and Mickey can’t even be sure where he ends and Ian begins, all wrapped up and tangled.

For now, this is what he gets. For now, this is perfect.

He’s not sure how long he lays there, hands stroking up and down Ian’s back, and breathing in the heady scent of his skin. Ian is his cover, molded to Mickey’s body as he sleeps on, completely unaware. Heat radiates from his bare skin, and Mickey thinks that he can just feel Ian’s heartbeat faint against his chest, more intimate and precious than any sex he’s had in his life.

There’s a sudden beeping from his night side table, and Mickey flings one hand out to turn off his phone before it can wake Ian.

The alarm brings him back down, reminds him of the time, reminds him that the rest of the world has continued on. Reality exists, ugly as it is. Small trivial things still control his life. He can’t just stay here in bed all day, holding Ian to him and whispering small devotions into his ear until he wakes up, no matter how much he wants to.

He can’t miss work.

And more than that. It wouldn’t be fair to Ian.

He doubts Ian remembers clearly what happened last night, and Mickey has a feeling that if Ian wakes up in a strange bed with a half-naked man, Mickey might lose a ball or two before Ian realizes who it is.

And even through his haze of skin and warmth and touch, Mickey is able to admit that this isn’t fair to him either.

He and Ian have shared a hug. Now, they lie here together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. The two realities attempt to overlap, entwine, but crash together and shatter instead. They don’t belong together, they can’t fit.

If this is to happen, if this is truly to happen, then Mickey needs to know. He might not be completely sure what it is he needs to know, but the gaps of his understanding are too great to be able to gloss over with a mere three words, no matter how pretty those words might be.

And now he realizes that he did the same thing to Ian, practically ten months ago, when he told Ian he loved him; it was a stupid and reckless mistake that suddenly threw everything Ian knew out of balance, throwing ideas of ‘love’ into his life when living was all he had the strength to focus on. He understands now, at least, why Ian had run out on him.

He rolls out from under Ian, lets him fall into the pillows with a sigh. He tucks the blankets up around Ian’s shoulders, allows his fingers to linger on his shoulder, one last touch, before he heads into the bathroom to get ready.

Ian is still sleeping when he walks out the door, soft and warm and breakable.

Everything is breakable.

 

Ian calls him around ten, the generic ringtone of his cellphone startling Mickey from the steady, reassurance of the numbers. “Mickey?”

“Is everything okay?” Mickey swivels in his seat to face away from the computer.

“Um…yeah, how…why am I in your bed?” Ian asks timidly, as if he’s afraid of the answer. “Did…did we do…anything?”

Mickey hurts first, in that instant, because Ian doesn’t trust him. But then he realizes that he’s not necessarily the one Ian can’t trust.

Because Ian loves him, and he never meant to.

Because Ian can’t trust himself, and he cuts himself off, works hard so no one else will trust him either, because he can’t disappoint any more people.

Because there is no one who will ever hate Ian more than he hates himself.

“No, nothing happened,” he tells Ian quickly. “You were really sick, so I let you sleep in my bed.” He pauses a second before adding, “I slept on the couch.”

It’s just easier this way, if Ian doesn’t have to know. That way, Mickey has a chance to figure out what he wants first, so he can be sure and stable when Ian needs him to be.

“Oh.” Ian’s voice is very soft—just like his skin, Mickey thinks—when he answers, but hard, sharp. Suspicious. “Okay then. Well, I have to go the hospital soon so…I’ll see you when you get home.” And he hangs up. Mickey isn’t sure if Ian believed him. In fact, he’s almost positive he didn’t.

Mickey sets the phone down and buries his head in his hands, tangling his fingers in his hair and blinking hard.

He’s starting to understand now. Get into Ian’s head in ways the other man never wanted him to, but now he’s held Ian vulnerable against him, stripped of all walls.

He understands just how much Ian hides now. And just how good he is at it.

He wonders how often you can lie to the world before you start to believe your own lies.

Ian is used to people abandoning him. He’s built his life around it. He can handle it, move past it, survive, because Ian is good at surviving. But people come with breaking points, Mickey knows. How many people can Ian lose, before he fights back, pushes those people away, so when they leave him, it doesn’t hurt as much?

He’s lost so much.

And he’d clung so tight to Mickey while he slept.

If Ian loves him, truly loves him, it’s not because it’s taken him this long to realize it, Mickey knows. It’s because Ian hasn’t dare put it to words. Because once something is put into words, that makes it real, and it makes it something Mickey could take away.

 

Ian is curled up on the couch when Mickey gets home that night. He doesn’t lift his head from the pillows, but Mickey knows that’s because Ian is always exhausted after radiation. Mickey leans over the back of the couch and waves the bag of Chinese take-out in his face. “Ready for dinner?”

“Eh,” Ian answers, raising his head for a second to raise an eyebrow at Mickey before curling tighter around himself. “Do I have to move?”

“Well, I’m not going to feed you.”

“You suck.”

_‘For making me fall in love with you’_. Mickey forces back the words and plasters on a smile as he shrugs. “Sorry.”

Ian groans and pushes himself upright. He takes the pillow with him, tucking his knees up to his chest and placing the pillow on his legs so he can bury his face there once more. Mickey frowns, moving around the couch and sitting down beside him. “Are you alright?”

“I feel really sick,” Ian admits. Mickey frowns, reaches out a hand, and tilts Ian onto his shoulder. Ian turns his face into Mickey’s arm and moans pitifully. “Feel sorry for me.”

“I do.” Mickey rubs a hand over Ian’s head, careful to avoid that one spot where his hair has been clipped away from the scar. “Do you want me to make you something else?”

“No,” Ian pouts. “Just…give me a few minutes.” He closes his eyes and breathes deep, nuzzling his face closer into Mickey’s arm. Slowly, Mickey tips his head down to rest on Ian’s.

They sit like that for a few moments, before Ian stirs. Mickey lifts his head to let Ian up, but far from moving away, Ian shuffles closer and nudges his face into Mickey’s neck. He sniffs, and Mickey freezes—because how do you react when someone is smelling you?—but then Ian is pulling back, narrowing his eyes at Mickey.

“Something happened last night, didn’t it?” he whispers. “You’re a terrible liar and I smelled like you this morning.”

“What?” Mickey knows he looks guilty even without Ian’s accompanying skeptical glare. “I…I…”

“Oh fuck.” Ian pulls away from him, shaking his head from side to side. “We slept together?”

“Yes. I mean…no! No…like, ‘sleep’ sleep. Not that kind of sleeping. Real sleeping!” Mickey tries to assure him, tripping over his words.

Ian shuts his eyes and curls into the pillow on his knees. “God. Why didn’t you just…tell me that instead of giving me a heart attack?”

When Mickey doesn’t answer, Ian turns his head to peer at him suspiciously. “Mickey, what the hell is going on?”

Mickey makes a small, noncommittal sound at the back of his throat.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Mickey mumbles.

“Like I believe that!”

“Just…trust me; you just want to forget about it.” Mickey goes to stand, but Ian latches onto his arm and drags him back down.

“No, I really want you to tell me what happened so I can stop worrying about it.”

“Ian…”

“Mickey, if we didn’t sleep together then what could be so wrong that you would have to lie to me about it and…”

“You said you were in love with me,” Mickey mutters quickly, as if that will make it so Ian doesn’t hear. Ian snaps his mouth shut and stares. Mickey looks away, swallowing hard.

He closes his eyes as he feels Ian stand up, and doesn’t tear until he hears the slam of the bedroom door.

He cries for Ian, because there’s nothing else he can do now.

 

It’s late at night when Mickey actually dares head into his own bedroom. He doesn’t even look at the lump on the bed while he changes into pajamas and goes to brush his teeth. When he comes back out into the bedroom, Ian is sitting up in his bed, blankets wrapped around him up his back and into a hood over his head, watching Mickey warily. The only light from the room is that filtering from the bathroom, but Mickey can still see the shine of Ian’s eyes, the shadows of his face.

“Am I supposed to sleep on the couch then?” Mickey asks wearily.

Ian shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Well…um…” Mickey shuffles his bare foot, suddenly wishing he was wearing something other than ratty sweatpants a t-shirt under Ian’s stare. “I’ll go then…”

He starts towards the door and is halfway out when Ian’s whisper stops him. “Please come back.”

“Okay,” Mickey murmurs, and he toes his way across the floor, head down, and clambers up onto the end of the bed. One of Ian’s feet is poking out from underneath his blanket cocoon, and Mickey wraps his fingers around Ian’s ankle, squeezing once before letting go. Small touches, small anchors.

 Ian doesn’t say anything, and Mickey is too nervous to do anything but sit there, waiting. Finally, Ian lets the blanket slip off his head and shoulders, leaving his face flushed and hair sticking on end. “I’m sorry,” he tells Mickey.

“For what?” Mickey asks, shuffling so he can sit cross-legged and place his hands in his lap. Ian’s made this feel like it was his fault, all the time. Mickey’s fault. So why is he apologising?

“For telling you that I love you,” Ian answers calmly, like this is some sort of business call. “I shouldn’t have done that and I’m sorry.”

Mickey shrugs. “It…it’s fine.” It’s not. “I did the same to you.”

Ian shakes his head slightly back and forth. “No. No, it wasn’t the same.”

Mickey frowns. “No, I think it was.” He needs it to be. That way they’re even. That way he can believe that Ian is just as lost as he is.

Ian’s eyes flicker to his, back down. “No, it isn’t,” he mutters.

“Why…why not?” Mickey asks.

Ian shuts his eyes tight and wraps his arms around his chest. “Because you were able to mean it.”

The wording catches at Mickey’s ears, even as the words themselves trickle icy and dark into his stomach. ‘Able to mean it’, not ‘you meant it’.

“So…so you don’t love me,” he whispers. He needs to know. He needs things to make sense again, even if it’s the kind of sense that he doesn’t want.

Not knowing is worse that knowing even the answer he hates.

Ian sniffs and hides his head between his knees. Mickey frowns and shuffles forward until he can place his hands on Ian’s shoulders and squeeze gently. “Ian?”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” Ian whispers, not raising his head.

“It does to me,” Mickey tells him.

Ian turns his head to the side and sighs. “I can’t love you, Mickey,” he says.

“Can’t or don’t?” Mickey asks, moving so he can meet Ian’s eyes.

Ian stares at him, cheeks flushed pink and eyes bright. “Can’t,” he croaks. “Even if I do.”

Mickey feels the catch in his chest, the tingle in his nose that signals the tears building behind his eyes. He does. He does, but he can’t, and Mickey will take it, take it and revel in it even as it breaks his heart. But it breaks Ian even more, he knows. He knows, and he can’t make it better. “You don’t…I won’t hurt you, Ian. I swear it.”

“I know that,” Ian says. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“Then…” Mickey turns away to scrub at his eyes with the back of his hand before those seemingly ever-present tears can appear on his face again. “I don’t understand why…why you push me away.”

Ian shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, shivering even wrapped in his blanket. “Because,” he whispers, “I needed to protect you.”

This doesn’t make sense. Protect him? Ian doesn’t protect him, he protects himself, that’s what Mickey knows, that what he’s based everything off of, how he’s justified everything Ian has done. “Why would you need to protect me?” Mickey asks, shaking his head back and forth. “And…and it wasn’t even that! You…you…you _hurt_ me, Ian.”

“Not as much as I would have,” Ian snaps back. He groans and hides his face in his hands.

“What does that even mean?” Mickey asks, voice swelling and growing angrier. “Why…what…what are you so afraid of? Falling in love?”

“Yes!” Ian cries, throwing the blankets away and throwing himself off the bed in a single movement. He threads his hands in his hair and groans, facing away from Mickey as he starts stalking around the room. He’s outlined against the light, dark in Mickey’s vision. “Yes, I’m afraid of falling in love with you. And it sucks, because I’ve been in love with you for months now and there’s nothing I can do about it!”

Ian loves him. Ian loves him, but he hates it, and that isn’t any type of victory. Not at all. This is supposed to feel good. It doesn’t.

“You could have told me,” Mickey murmurs, tangling his hands in his lap.

Ian barks out a laugh, and Mickey cringes. “I couldn’t tell you,” Ian says quietly. “That’s the problem.” He goes quiet, and when Mickey looks up, Ian is staring at him, and Mickey can see the tracks of tears down his cheeks even in the muted lighting.

“Mick,” Ian whispers, moving forward to perch on the edge of the bed. He reaches out, strokes a hand down Mickey’s cheek, and it’s only then that Mickey realizes his own tears have escaped, the mutinous little bastards. “It’s not that I don’t want to be in love with you. I really wish…wish I could be. But…but things go wrong…” His voice breaks on the word. “…when I love people. And…and I love you, and I can’t…I can’t let that happen. Not again.”

“But…but you love me.” Mickey shakes his head, dislodging Ian’s hand. “And I love you, and I don’t see why you’re so afraid…”

“Because I love you, you idiot!” Ian tells him harshly. “Okay? I care about you. I want you to be happy. And…so I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell you that and I don’t know why I’m telling you now because…because now everything’s ruined!”

“Why couldn’t you tell me?” Mickey asks, grabbing Ian’s wrist before he can stand up again and yanking him closer. “I don’t…”

“Because I’ve been there!” Ian yells, ripping his hand away. “Okay? I know…I know how this feels!”

“How what feels?”

“I was going to die, Mickey!” Ian shrieks. “What part of that is difficult to understand?” And he begins to cry, overwhelming sobs that break him, break Mickey as well, because loving someone is so damn hard all of sudden. Why does it have to be so damn hard? He sits there, next to Ian, and watches him as he cries, not daring to touch, until his own vision blurs to the point where Ian is just a smear of color against the darkness of the room. All he can hear are Ian’s gasps and chokes as he tries to stop,  tries to hold himself together and not shatter, and every sound just strikes another blow against Mickey, and he can feel the cracks appearing. Jesus Christ, why is finding a fairytale so difficult?

Finally, Ian brings his breathing under control, and leans his head against Mickey’s shoulder, fingers playing up and down his arm. And he speaks.

“When someone you love dies, it seems like it would be the most painful thing.” He shrugs his shoulder, and Mickey can feel the ripple of movement through his body, rather than see it. “But…but when someone dies and you know they loved you back…trust me, Mickey, it’s even worse.” His breath hitches, and Mickey wonders for a second if he’s going to cry again, but after a moment he steadies himself, breathes deep, continues. “Because not only do you lose them, but you lose the way they loved you.”

Mickey’s never thought about that. But now he does, as he slowly moves an arm up to wrap around Ian’s waist. He thinks of all Ian has lost, and he thinks of the true reason people mourn. And he thinks that, even if Ian can’t speak for everyone, he speaks for himself, and that’s all that Mickey needs to know.

“I couldn’t do that to you,” Ian whispers. “I couldn’t.”

“You’re not going to die Ian,” Mickey murmurs.

“I know,” Ian admits. “But it still feels like I’m going to.”

“What…” Mickey clears his throat. “When will it stop feeling like that?”

“I’m not sure.” Ian turns his head to stare at Mickey. “I…I know that…I know that this isn’t…isn’t easy.”

“Do you…” Mickey clears his throat again. “When it stops feeling like that…do you think you’ll be able to? Love me?”

Ian sighs, and wraps his fingers tight around Mickey’s wrist. “I don’t think I’ll be able to not love you, to be quite honest.”

Mickey blinks, nibbles on his lip, and shakes his head.

“What?” Ian asks him, “What is it?”

I’m not sure why you love me. “Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Of course he doesn’t. Mickey is terrible at hiding his feelings. “It’s not important now. Maybe…maybe later. But it can wait.”

Ian raises his eyebrows, stares, but nods. “Okay.” He looks down at where he has his hand locked around Mickey’s wrist, pale skin against tan. Finally, he lifts his head and asks, “But…will you wait?”

“Hmm?”

Ian huffs, shuffles around so he can turn his body towards Mickey. He places his hands on Mickey’s knees, gently kneading through his pajama bottoms. “Can you wait for me? Wait until…until I can love you? Because I really do want to love you, but if…”

Mickey cups his cheek in one hand, presses a kiss to his forehead, chaste and gentle. “I promise.”

He sleeps on the couch that night.

 

The week passes, and Mickey realizes how he has come to depend on the numbers. It’s a relief, in fact, to be able to go to work, and the numbers might be ever-changing, but they’re always there, and they don’t lie to him. Constant. And consistency is something Mickey craves very much in his life right now.

They haven’t talked again of love and promises, not since that Friday. It goes unsaid between them, in every accidental glance, the brush of hands. The knowledge that what they have is real, and tangible, but they can’t acknowledge it, touch it even. It’s brittle. Breakable. So they live on, bury the words, bury the touches, and try to return to the small realities of a trivial world. Mickey needs to earn money; Ian needs to return the hospital every day. Keep living.

But every night, Ian gets worse. He’s exhausted, and irritable for it, and when Mickey can actually convince him to eat, half the time he ends up next to the toilet, shivering and sweating and ordering Mickey to leave every time he tries to help. On Wednesday, he passes out there, right on the bathroom floor, and Mickey just sits with him and rocks slowly back and forth until his shivering subsides. He wishes there was something more he could do, but even if he could, Ian won’t let him. Everything is so close now, so close to being over, with only one and half weeks of radiation therapy left, but strung tight, fragile.

“I hate this,” Ian tells him one night. They’re sitting in the living room, Ian stretched out on the couch and Mickey in the chair, reading. “I hate this so much.”

“What?” Mickey bookmarks his place and sets the book down to look at Ian.

“Everything,” Ian replies simply. “I hate waiting like this. I hate thinking that everything will be over soon, because I want it to be over now. I hate not having any control.”

“Next Friday,” Mickey tells him. “That’s your last treatment. And the oncologist said that you’re doing well. It’ll only be a few more check-ups and then it’s all gone.”

“No,” Ian disagrees, sighing as he sets aside his newspaper. “It won’t ever be gone. Not completely. And that’s what I hate the most.”

 

Mickey does bring it up once. “Ian?” he asks, while they sit together at dinner. Ian’s stirring his tomato soup around aimlessly, and glances up when Mickey speaks.

“Yes?”

“How will I know when I’m done waiting?”

Ian sighs, goes to running his finger around the rim of his bowl.

“Ian?”

“I’ll break,” Ian tells him, not looking up. “That’s how you’ll know.”

Mickey frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I want this to be over, every day. And…and the day it is…that’ll be day I finally can’t take it anymore.” He glances up, catches Mickey’s eyes. “That’s just how it happens, Mickey. There’s nothing you can do.”

Because Ian is used to breaking. And every time he pieces himself back together, pulls the threads and sews himself whole again, to the point where all you can see are faint little scars, barely noticeable on the outside.

One day, Mickey might see those scars, compare them to his own, cover them with kisses, and maybe after enough time they’ll begin to fade.

 

Iggy and Joey show up at his apartment Friday night, uninvited. Mickey is making dinner when he hears the buzzing from the front door, and he leaves his sauce to simmer as he goes to answer.

“Hello?”

“Mickey? Hey, let us up, it’s freezing!” Iggy’s voice answers him, and he can hear Joey agreeing in the background.

He sees Ian head poke up over the back of the couch, eyebrows raised in alarm. “Um…I don’t think that’s the best idea, guys,” he says.

“No,” Joey tells him. “You haven’t been out with us for weeks. We’re hitting the bar tonight, now come on, let us in. Or come down, either works.”

“I haven’t had dinner yet,” Mickey protests, and he watches as Ian gathers up his blankets and stands, shuffling into the hallway.

“That’s okay, we’ll go grab something.”

“No, no, listen…”

“No. Mickey. You’ve turned into a complete shut-in and we’re concerned. You need to come out with us. Come on,” Iggy orders. Mickey hears the click of the bedroom door as Ian makes his escape.

“I don’t really want to leave,” he tells them. “I need to stay here. I’m sorry.”

“Mickey…”

“Look, do you guys want to come up for a beer or something?” he asks desperately. “I just…can’t leave.” It’s hard enough going to work—there’s no way he’s abandoning Ian now.

He can hear them whispering about it, soft enough so he can’t actually catch the words, but then Joey is speaking again. “Okay. It’s a deal. Let us up.”

Mickey types in his code to open the front doors and leaves the two of them to find their way to an elevator as he jogs down the hall to the bedroom.

Ian is already curled in the bed, face scrunched tight and shiny with sweat. “Ian?” Mickey whispers, reaching out to push Ian’s hair away from his forehead. Ian opens his eyes and stares at Mickey wearily.

“I don’t really feel like meeting anyone right now.”

“I know. You stay here. I’ll bring you dinner in just a few minutes. They won’t see you.” He already knows there is no way he’ll be able to hide Ian completely. Iggy and Joey, despite what most people think,  are both intelligent people, and Mickey’s entire apartment is permeated with Ian’s presence. The finished crosswords lying around in odd places, the stack of DVDs on the kitchen table, the nests of blankets, his clothes in boxes in the corners of the room. But even if Mickey will have to eventually explain, he wants to be able to keep Ian out of it. Keep him safe.

“Okay.” Ian closes his eyes once more, pulls the blankets tighter.

Mickey pats his back, once, before heading back out and closing the door behind him. He heads to the front just in time to let Iggy and Joey in before they start knocking. “Hey guys.”

“Hi Mickey,” Iggy greets him, clapping him on the shoulder before moving inside and unslinging the scarf from around his neck. “Long time no see.”

“You see me!” Mickey protests, holding out his hands for their coats. “And I’ve been busy.”

“I’m sure,” Joey snorts. He lifts an eyebrow at the mess in the kitchen. “Want some help?”

“What? Oh…” Mickey throws the jackets down on the chair and rushes to turn the heat down under his sauce. “No. I got it. Um…make yourselves at home.” Ian’s dinner. Right, he needs to do that too.

He stirs frantically at the sauce as Iggy and Joey find places on the couch and chair.

“You seem a little…worried,” Iggy comments, studying Mickey as he pokes at his noodles. “Are you alright?”

Mickey laughs, and he knows it sounds forced. “Yeah, I’m fine!”

The two of them exchange glances, which Mickey tries to ignore.

“So…how’s life been?” he asks, abandoning the noodles in favor of grabbing some beer cans from the refrigerator.

“Oh…fine,” Joey answers.

“Same here,” Iggy agrees.

Mickey bites his lip, nods, walks over to the living room and hands them the beers. “Cool.” He returns to the kitchen and grabs some tomato soup out of the cupboard. He pops the lid and pours the soup into a bowl to heat in the microwave. Tomato soup is usually a safe bet with Ian’s stomach.

“You…you guys have any plans for the weekend?”

“Nothing much,” Joey says. “I have a date on Saturday.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Joey sighs. “I don’t know. I used one of those internet dating sites.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment.

“It’s a sad day when three reasonably good looking, well-off individuals can’t find a date without the help of a website,” Iggy sighs. “It always seemed a lot easier in those eighties rom-coms.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees with a chuckle, moving back to grab the soup out of the microwave as the machine starts to ding at him. He spoons the soup into a bowl, pours a glass of juice, and sets everything on a tray. Of course, he’s not managing to be very discreet here, but Iggy and Joey  can wait. It’s not like he’s fooling himself into thinking they won’t realize something is off, although he’ll try to avoid it as long as he can. “Um…I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

“Of course,” Joey tells him, leaning back in the chair and taking a drink. Mickey grabs the tray and scurries into the hallway, slipping into the bedroom. Ian turns over and sits himself up when Mickey approaches the bed.

“Who’s here?” he asks.

“Iggy and Joey.” Mickey explains, setting the tray on the night-side table and fluffing the pillows up behind Ian so he can sit up taller. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Ian mutters, taking the tray and staring dubiously at the soup. He glances up at Mickey.

“How long do you think they’ll be here?”

“They just want to catch up,” Mickey tells him calmly, “I haven’t really seen them for a couple of weeks now.”

Ian frowns, pauses with a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Should I…should I say hi? It’s sort of my fault you haven’t…”

“Not your fault,” Mickey tells him immediately, and he pats him on the knee under the blankets before heading for the door.

Iggy and Joey are still sipping politely at their beers when he gets back to the living room.

“So…that dating site…” he starts with a self-deprecating laugh. Iggy raises his eyebrows, stares at him.

“What?”

“Is there someone in the bedroom?”

Mickey shuts his eyes, sinking into the couch. “Kind of hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

Iggy snorts. “You live in a New York apartment, Mickey. The walls are thin. So unless your bed sheets enjoy holding conversation and have an inexplicable yearning for soup then…”

“Oh shit,” Joey whispers with sudden horror in his voice, standing quickly. “Oh…shit, you were having sex, shit, we’ll leave…”

“No!” Mickey yelps. “No, I wasn’t…” He remembers Ian in the bedroom, awake and aware, and lowers his voice to just above a whisper. “It isn’t sex!”

“Oh my God.” Iggy sets down his beer and buries his head in his hands. “What the hell Mickey? Who’s in the bedroom?”

Mickey pauses, because at this point he doesn’t know how to describe Ian to himself, much less his friends. “He’s a…he’s a friend,” he says haltingly.

“He,” Joey repeats slowly.

“Yes, ‘he’,” Mickey snaps back. “I am perfectly capable of having male friends that I don’t have sex with, thank you very much!”

“Hey now,” Iggy placates him, lifting his head from his hands. “What would you think if I had a woman hanging out in my bedroom, huh?”

There’s a sudden noise from the hallway, and all three turn quickly only to find Ian stumbling into the kitchen, still wrapped up entirely in his blanket. Ian ignores their eyes, digging into the cupboard and grabbing the box of Saltines. When he glances up, he studies Iggy and Joey for a half second before raising the crackers. “Can I take these?” he rasps.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Mickey tells him softly. Because if Ian has decided he’d rather see people right now than go cracker-less, he can have all the crackers he wants. Mickey will buy out the store if he needs to.

“ ’kay.” Ian tucks the box into his chest and starts back towards the bedroom, dragging the blanket behind him. “Bye, Mickey’s brothers.” The door clicks shut behind him, and Iggy and Joey turn to stare at him, wide-eyed.

“What the hell, Mickey?” Joey asks. “Who is that?”

Mickey sighs.

Because there is so much to explain. Because he knows he’ll never be able to. Because suddenly Ian is not his, not anymore, not now that life has to come poking it’s nose in. Now they can’t just be ‘Ian and Mickey’, words going unsaid between them. Now they have to be something else, something that the rest of the world can define, and categorize. And when something is defined, it can lose so much.

I love him and he loves me but we can’t say it out loud, not yet, because that might ruin everything.

He saved me from myself and now I’m trying to do the same, if he’ll let me.

I found the one person I can imagine waking up beside every morning, if only I can convince him to stay.

“He’s a friend,” he says. “I told you.” Anything else will just ruin it.

“Then why is he in your bedroom?” Iggy accuses. Mickey narrows his eyes at him. Why can’t they leave it alone? Why does everything have to defined in neat little words and boxes?

“Because he’s sick, alright?” he hisses. “He’s really sick and needed someone to help take care of him. Okay? We’re not doing anything together—I’m trying to help him get better!”

“What…?”

“No,” Mickey tells them. “No, that’s all I’m going to say about it.”

That’s all he can say about it.

 

They leave soon after, mumbling goodbyes and asking Mickey to call when things settle down. “Let me know if I can help out,” Iggy tells him as they step out into the hallway. “Cook dinner, or something. Just let me know.”

“Thank you,” Mickey mutters. “And…I’m sorry. It was just…complicated.”

“It’s fine, Mickey,” Joey says. “We were just a little worried, is all. About you. But yeah, let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. “Thanks.”

“Wait.” Joey catches his arm before he duck back inside. “Are you going to be okay?” He meets Mickey’s eyes and doesn’t let go. “You’re going to be okay, right?”

“If I’m not, I’ll know which shoulders to go cry on.” He smiles faintly at the both of them before closing the door. It’s not an answer, he knows, but it’ll be enough for them. They know him.

Ian is still eating when Mickey opens the door to the bedroom, dipping the crackers into the soup diligently before nibbling on the edges.

“Are they gone?” he asks without glancing up.

“Yeah,” Mickey says.

“Did I screw things up?”

“What? No.” Mickey goes to sit on the end of the bed. “No, nothing’s screwed up. They were just a little surprised is all.”

“By the random face of death creeping into your kitchen? Yeah, understandable. But I wanted to see them.” He pops the rest of a cracker into his mouth and looks up at Mickey. “You haven’t told people about me?”

“There’ll be time for that later. Right now, people don’t need to know.” Mickey reaches out to rub at his leg beneath the covers. “There are more important things going on. Getting you better.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Sap.”

“But you like it.”

“I do,” Ian whispers. “I really do.”

 

Neither Iggy nor Joey bring up Ian again that week, even though they begin emailing and texting him every day to ‘check up on him’, and for that Mickey is thankful. They seem to have realized just how close Mickey has been guarding Ian, keeping him secret and close and safe, and Mickey knows  that they worry for him. Because Mickey is usually incapable of keeping secrets.

So the days pass, and Mickey lives on. He wakes up, goes to work, usually calls Ian during his lunch break just to make sure he’s alright and set to take a cab to the hospital. Ian has to talk him out of coming home a few times, voice weak and weary, because Mickey hates the idea of Ian going alone, but he also understands that Ian needs to.

Most nights he comes home to find Ian asleep, either on the couch or in Mickey’s bed, face buried in Mickey’s pillows. Mickey has never asked him why he does it, and perhaps it should feel odd to have Ian sleeping in his bed, but it makes him feel better, for some reason, the idea that Ian falls asleep in the same place Mickey has dreamed about him, those nice dreams of hand holding and kissing and soft whispers. When he’s at work he likes to imagine Ian being all wrapped up in dreams, protected and sheltered, because Ian doesn’t have any dreams of his own, not anymore.

 

When Mickey gets home from work on Wednesday night, Ian is nowhere to be seen, but he can hear the sound of the shower running when he heads into the bedroom to change into sweatpants and a t-shirt. The steam is leaking out from under the door, and Mickey takes it as a good sign. Ian hasn’t had the energy to do much else than lie on the couch for days now, so the fact that he’s taking a shower must be a good thing. Progress.

Mickey heads into the kitchen and grabs a bag of tortilla chips out of cupboard, bringing the bag with him to couch and switching on the television. There’s nothing very good now, mostly trashy news programs, but Mickey watches anyway. There’s nothing better for him to do, not until Ian finishes up.

Two more days. Two more days and it’s done, or at least that’s what the oncologist keeps telling them. Next, of course, will be the recovery, the stitching of pieces. Ian will fix himself, and this time, maybe Mickey will help. Things will change. Ian might move back to his crummy little apartment, Mickey will finally take the time to assess the amount of damage done to his trust fund (a lot, more than originally estimated). But Ian will be alive, and Mickey will be okay too.

This might not be a fairy-tale, but Mickey can’t push away his fundamental belief in happy endings.

It’s when he’s halfway through the bag of chips, half an hour into a bad Lifetime movie that he realizes the shower is still running. It’s a slow realization, the trickling of pipes, the rush of water, the absence of all other sound. He turns off the television quickly and listens hard for a noise, any noise but the run of water, but none greet his ears.

Mickey brushes off his hands on his jeans as he stands and scurries down the hall to the bedroom. The light is still filtering under the door to the bathroom, but the steam has disappeared. Mickey shoves open the door, sees the closed curtain, hears the steady thrum of water hitting the sides of the shower.  
“Ian?” he calls anxiously. “Ian, are you okay?”

There’s no answer. Mickey’s heart leaps into his throat, and he rushes forward, slides the curtain across so fast the rings snap.

Ian stares up at him, arms wrapped around his legs, curled on the floor of the tub. His eyes are swollen, bright, his mouth red from where he’s chewed his lips to bleeding, and his entire body is trembling, naked and exposed.

Mickey doesn’t see it at first, as he scans Ian’s body for sign of injury, but then his eyes stray to the tub, notice the color against the white, and he knows what’s happened.

Hair clogs the drain, dark red  and dead and gone, and now Mickey can see the patches on Ian’s head where it fell out, obvious by the way his remaining hair is plastered to his scalp by the water.

A final reminder. Ian’s sick and he’s still sick and he might be almost better now but there is never any pretending that this didn’t happen.

Of course, they’d both known it was a possibility. But why is it now, now that everything is almost over, that this seems like something so big?

Ian blinks up at him, hazy-eyed, and shakes his head slowly back and forth. “Mick,” he croaks, and he reaches out one hand imploringly.

Mickey doesn’t think. He just clambers into the tub, right behind Ian, molds himself to Ian’s back and holds him close. “It’s okay,” he whispers, as the water, freezing, melts over them, soaking Mickey’s clothes, drenching his face and hair as he closes his eyes and focuses on the body in his arms. “It’s okay.”

“Mickey.” Ian’s arms come up over his head, wrap around Mickey’s neck, his legs fall open as his body relaxes into Mickey’s touch. He’s so cold, muscles jumping under the plane of his skin as he shivers. “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey…”

Mickey shuts his eyes, pushes his face into Ian’s neck, lets his arms tighten around Ian’s stomach. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” He rocks back and forth, back and forth, and he knows that the smart thing to do is to turn off the water and get Ian into bed, but at the same time, Ian is holding him here, holding tight, and Mickey can’t imagine letting go.

He’d never imagined his first time with Ian naked in his arms would be quite like this, and he hates his body for reacting the way it does, when Ian shoves himself back harder, his ass rubbing against Mickey’s cock through the fabric of his sweatpants. Ian whimpers, tilts his head to the side to expose more of his neck, straightens out his legs until his feet brush the end of the tub, pushes back. Mickey bites his lip to stop the groan from escaping when Ian rubs against him.

“I-Ian…” he gasps, “I’m sorry, I…”

But then Ian’s hand has detached from around his neck, skims down the plane of his own chest, grabs onto Mickey’s. He turns his head to stare at Mickey as he take his hand, places it on his own halfhard cock, and Mickey realizes that Ian is rubbing against him on purpose.

“Ian…Ian I…”

“Please,” Ian gasps, wrapping Mickey’s fingers around him as he shoves back against Mickey. “Please do this…”

“Oh fuck, oh…”

Ian kisses him, wet and sloppy and desperate. Their teeth clink together, lips sucking and grabbing helplessly as Mickey starts to stroke up and down Ian’s cock in a stuttering rhythm.

This isn’t what he imagined their first kiss would be like.

In Mickey’s mind, it happened a thousand times. That night Ian caught snowflakes on his tongue, how he turned smiling to Mickey, walked up to him, pressed his lips soft and sweet and gentle to Mickey’s.

When they painted, Ian would turn his head, smile, and Mickey would lean forward, kiss the corner of Ian’s mouth, and Ian would slide his mouth along they’re kissing properly, slow and sensual.

Or when they were on one of the coffee dates, Ian would look around furtively, before dipping his head forward and giving Mickey a chaste little kiss, secret and special, before settling back into his seat with a smile.

This isn’t like that. Ian’s mouth is warm and soft, but needy, making small noises as he shoves his tongue between Mickey’s panting lips, takes him all. His lips are raw and swollen from biting, and the water has washed away any taste Mickey might have found on him.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t want this.

Ian nips at his bottom lip, lets go, pulls away. He shifts, twisting in Mickey’s arms, and his back peels away from Mickey’s shirt, allowing the water to run between them, making Mickey shiver as Ian’s hands go to the top of his pants, yanking them down and grabbing his cock in his hand. His eyes are feverish, his movements quick and clumsy, as he starts stroking Mickey, trying to get him to harden.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he whispers, more to himself. Mickey feels his cock respond to the touch, but Christ how he hates it, he doesn’t want this, not like this, he doesn’t want it.

Mickey can’t do this.

“Ian…” He grabs Ian’s hands, bring them up, forces Ian to turn around, kneel before him with his wrists caught in front of his face. Now he can see. Ian’s crying--those silent, deadly tears--as he stares back at Mickey, chest heaving, lips trembling. “Ian…”

He presses their foreheads together, moves his hands from Ian’s wrists, and slides them up his arms, the slopes of his shoulders, to cup his face, fingers smoothing over jaw.  
“We don’t need this,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “Please…”

“I need to love you right now,” Ian croaks. “I need…”

“Not like this,” Mickey tells him. “Not like this.” He presses Ian against his chest, kisses down his neck, his collarbone, lips lingering at every touch. Slowly, he reaches out one hand until he can turn off the water. They kneel there together, at the bottom of the tub, sealed together and both shivering with cold. Ian hides his face in Mickey’s soaked shirt, muffles the sounds of his own sobs.

Eventually, Mickey extricates himself, stands, and pulls his pants up. He goes to the cupboard and grabs all the towels he can find, perching on the edge of the tub and wrapping them around Ian, rubbing him dry. Ian keeps his head down the entire time, moves when Mickey prompts him.

When Mickey rubs Ian’s head dry, the towel comes away with another clump of hair. Mickey throws that one on the floor quickly, and guides Ian to his feet. He’s shaky in the legs, and shivering rather violently as Mickey helps him out of the tub. He wraps an arm around Ian’s waist and walks him out into the bedroom, over to the bed. He pulls back the covers and Ian lies down obediently. At this point, Mickey doesn’t see any point to modesty, so he peels away the towels so Ian isn’t wrapped in wet terrycloth before drawing the blankets up to Ian’s chin.

He leans down, brushes his lips on Ian’s cheek. “Do you want anything?”

Ian rolls his eyes before reaching up and shoving Mickey away. “Go get undressed and talk to me when you’re naked.”

“Presumptuous.” Mickey grins at him before raising his arms and pulling the sodden t-shirt off over his head.

“Mmm…I know what I want, yes.” Ian closes his eyes and hums as Mickey strips away his pants and underwear, leaving them in a wet heap on the floor. “Now come lie down with me.” Mickey pauses and Ian cracks open one eye. “I’m not gonna seduce you,” he says wearily. “I just…need someone to love me right now.”

Mickey feels his face go slack with wonder as he slips under the covers next to Ian. He lets Ian tug him into his arms, feels the slide of chill skin as they press their bodies together. “I always love you,” he whispers, and Ian smiles.

“I’m glad.” He nuzzles their noses together. Mickey smiles back, moves forward, kisses him, soft and slow and sweet until neither of them can breathe.

“Thank you,” Ian whispers against Mickey’s lips. “You’re right. I just…that was….a shock.” The way his voice trembles on the last word tells him it was much more than that.

“It’s okay,” Mickey tells him. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”

“I just wanted to be close to you,” Ian murmurs, nuzzling his face into Mickey’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so—“

“No,” Mickey tells him. “It’s okay. We’ll be close like this.”

There’s a pause, and then Ian mutters, “I know I shouldn’t care, but…” He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head back and forth in a jerky little motion. “My hair…I…I can’t…”

“You’re beautiful,” Mickey says quietly, raising a hand to the side of Ian’s face. “You’re so beautiful.”

Ian stares at him, eyes hooded and lips parted, almost as if he can’t believe what Mickey just told him. “Thank you,” he murmurs at last.

“I love you,” Mickey whispers back, and for now, that’s enough to hold things together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	14. Family

For the second time in his life, Mickey wakes with Ian in his arms. And this time, he can let it remain that way. He allows the knowledge to sink in, without even bothering to open his eyes. The memories of last night resurface: Ian’s body pressed against his own and cemented to him with sheets of cold water, the sight of the clumps of hair falling away, that first kiss—hard and needy and unwanted—and those later ones—sweet and soft and needed. Falling asleep to the steady rhythm of Ian’s breathing.

And it’s all still there. He can feel it. Slowly, Mickey cracks his eyes open, waits for the blurriness to pass, and adds color to the pictures his fingertips have painted.

The soft light of winter morning stretches across the bed in flickering fingers of brightness from where it has peeked in through the shades, and the hazy glow of it casts everything into dream quality, insubstantial almost, but for the actual shape of Ian’s body secured against this own. He is real, and solid, tucked into Mickey’s chest with breath fluttering softly against Mickey’s neck. The sheets mold in and around their bodies, tying them together, and Mickey can feel the soft chill of Ian’s skin pressed against his own, from where Ian has his nose pressed against Mickey’s jaw, down the curve of his neck, the lines of his chest, the tapering of his waist, the weight of his cock, to the length of his legs tangled in Mickey’s own. He’s pale, like the feathers of a dove, and soft, so soft beneath Mickey’s hands as they rub down his back, playing in the dip of his spine. Like this, he looks innocent, almost like a child. Because Ian had his childhood stolen away from him when he was sixteen—maybe it’s the moments like these where it seeps back in, all the forgotten laughter, the light in his eyes.

Mickey wonders if you can steal childhood back once it’s been thieved. He’ll do it. He’ll do it an instant. He kneads his hands into the muscles of Ian’s lower back, gentle but firm, and wonders how Ian can carry so much tension even while asleep. How long his muscles been wound with worries and fears and other peoples’ troubles, something Ian seems to pick up wherever he goes.

Ian attracts broken people because he is one—people like Maya, with her broken heart, and people like Mickey, with broken dreams. Sometimes it hard to notice someone broken, unless you’ve been there yourself. Sometimes you can’t fix them unless you know what it’s like.

Ian fixed Mickey with paint and snowflakes and greasy fast-food French fries, before Mickey had even realized just how broken he was.

And all this time Mickey has been hoping to fix him right back, but now he realizes it doesn’t work that way. He could give everything he has to Ian—his money, his body, his love—but none of that can make a difference. In the end, Ian will fix himself, because Ian is an expert at gluing together broken pieces. All Mickey can do is stand below and catch him if he stumbles. And when Ian is all sewn  up, he’ll have someone who loves him, stitches and all, and he’ll have someone to love back, if he still wants it. If he needs it.

Mickey doesn’t need to be a knight in shining armor. And while that realization stabs him in every ingrown expectation he’s always had about love, he feels, somehow, that it will work much better this way.

Ian stirs, stretching his legs and arching his back so he presses harder against Mickey, and hums happily as he repositions his head onto the pillow instead of Mickey’s neck. He cracks open one eye and smiles sleepily. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Mickey whispers, raising one hand to brush at the strands of hair fluttering across Ian’s face. “Sleep well?”

“You’re kind of like a human sauna,” Ian mumbles, shutting his eyes once again. “It’s nice.”

“Well, I strive for perfection.”

“Oh is that what you call it?” Ian smiles even as he teases, and lifts his head to press a soft, dry kiss to Mickey’s lips. Mickey grins, and drags Ian against him. He has the feeling he should be more turned on right now, but sleepiness and the great weight of contentment are enough—he’s sated.

He kisses Ian back, long and smooth and languid, and flips them suddenly, so Ian lies on top of him, the sheets tangled around their sweat-stained skin. Ian laughs, and peppers Mickey’s lips with small kisses. Mickey cups Ian’s neck in one hand and goes to run his other through Ian’s hair, but remembers last second and settles it on his waist instead.

Ian stops, and folds his arms across Mickey’s chest, resting his chin on top. He stares at Mickey, a small smile playing on his lips.

“What?” Mickey asks.

“Just…thank you,” Ian whispers. “I know…I know this is confusing for you, and it’s confusing for me too.” He shrugs. “Some days…I’m not how I feel, or how to act. It’s like my head can’t decide what’s right anymore. And I’m scared.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “But you still love me anyways, even though I’m fucked up and sick and stupid and I treat you like shit.”

“Hey.” Mickey slides his hand up from Ian’s neck to brush his fingers along Ian’s cheekbone. Ian opens his eyes and studies him, brows furrowing. Mickey shakes his head back and forth. “You’re not fucked up. Some really fucked up things have happened to you, yes, but that doesn’t make you any less beautiful in my eyes, okay?”

Ian makes a face.

It’s Mickey’s turn to frown. “No. Don’t think like that.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Yeah? Well I’ve been thinking like that for nine years now. Kind of hard to change.”

Sometimes the knight in shining armor is forced to sit back and watch, and not do a thing, because there is nothing you can do to change it. And it can be difficult, and it will be difficult, watching as Ian revisits everything he has done and everything he regrets, but Mickey will, because he knows that when Ian is able to look back at everything, then he’ll be able to turn away. Once he can take the time to scan across the lost years, see himself removed from it all, he’ll come to understand the reasons, and the means, and forgive himself for the weights he carries every day.

But for now, Mickey watches as Ian’s face darkens, the light of his eyes and the pale flush of lips fading. Ian turns his head away slightly, as doesn’t meet Mickey’s gaze.

“I love you,” Mickey reminds him, and one corner of Ian’s mouth twitches upward in a smile.

He rolls off of Mickey and props his head up on one hand. He frowns slightly. “I promise I’ll be able to say it back one day.”

“No hurry,” Mickey tells him, and angles in for one last kiss before kicking away the covers. “Now I have to get ready for work. Are you going to sleep some more?”

“Mmm…” Ian snuggles back up in the blankets and rolls into a ball. “Probably. Wake me up before you go?”

“Okay.”

Mickey goes and grabs a shirt out of his closet, nabs his work pants, and is halfway to the bathroom when Ian speaks up. “Mick?”

“Yeah?” He turns back to the bed.

“What are we?”

Mickey pokes his head out of the cupboards and studies Ian owlishly. He remembers that he’s standing there naked, and feels the need to cover himself rise up before he reminds himself that he slept naked in bed last night with an equally naked Ian, and there’s really no point. And then the questions processes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” One hand emerges from the blankets to wave mindlessly through the air. “What would you tell people we are? I…I don’t know.”

Mickey doesn’t know either, and he’s not sure what Ian expects him to say. Because it was Ian who pulled him into bed last night, Ian who kissed him in the shower, Ian who told him he needed to love him. Mickey is lost, following in whatever Ian tells him, trying to read the signs. And while Ian’s body felt so right pressed against his own, with it everything becomes even more complicated than before. Now they can’t be two people who love each other but can’t handle it yet. Now they are two  people who love each other and can occasionally express it but who knows for how long or at what cost? They are people with so much broken between them, trying to patch it over with kisses and pretend the breaks never existed in the first place, people trying to jump into love without going through all the steps on the way. Everything is confusing, and maddening, and Mickey can feel it building up in him, but shuts those feelings behind bars to deal with later, because Ian is staring at him with what looks like actual fright in his eyes and for now Mickey has to be the one with all the answers. He gives Ian a small smile and a shrug of one shoulder. “I think, for now, if we can just be us, then we’re doing just fine.”

It’s all he can say. He figures, definition can wait. The world can wait. Within these walls, between those sheets, if they can simply manage to be ‘Ian and Mickey’, then they are golden.

 

He mixes up one of the smoothies the doctor recommended and leaves it in the refrigerator for Ian to find later. It’s Thursday, which means tomorrow is the last day of radiation. They’ll give it a couple days, and then take the final scans to determine whether Ian is actually cured. Mickey does a rough estimate in his head and figures that they’ll know the results in about a week’s time. A week. It’s been months and months, over a year and a half for Ian since this entire mess began, and in a week it might be over. The concept is overwhelming, and Mickey can’t imagine how Ian must feel.

He finds himself doing that a lot—imagining how Ian must feel. It’s pointless really, he knows, because in all likelihood Mickey will imagine Ian is feeling one way when Ian is in fact feeling the complete opposite, but it’s soothing, somehow, to fool himself into thinking he might understand Ian, even in small ways.

He throws together a sandwich and heads back to the bedroom to grab his jacket. Ian has completely closed himself off in a nest of blankets and pillows, and Mickey stifles a laugh to see it. He pads across the floor and climbs up onto the edge of the bed, putting a hand on the biggest lump and shaking. “Hey sleepy-head.”

“Mmph,” Ian replies, shifting under his hands.

“You told me to wake you up,” Mickey whispers, dipping down to where he thinks Ian’s head is.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he grumbles back, and the blankets shift away, revealing his flushed face. Mickey swoops down and presses a kiss to his lips before he can protest.

“I’m off now. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Alright.” Ian yanks on his tie to pull him down for one last kiss before shoving him off the bed.

“Go on, Dapper Dan.”

“You’ll be okay?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The silence stretches between them on motes of sunlight. Ian casts his eyes away, hands fiddling in the sheets. “I can take care of myself,” he repeats, slowly, hesitantly, and Mickey reads the words in between.

“I’ll call during my lunch break, okay?” he asks, and reaches down to squeeze Ian’s hand. Ian nods, smiles weakly at him, and shoos him off.

“Wall Street beckons you.”

It really doesn’t, and it never has, but Mickey accepts it with a smile.

 

The day seems longer than usual. Where before he was able to immerse himself in the numbers and escape, make the time pass in flurries, now each digit drags before his eyes. He misses the feel of Ian’s skin beneath his fingertips, misses his mouth, misses the sound of his voice.

He imagines a life after this is over. He won’t be here anymore, for one thing. He doesn’t know what he’ll do, but he can’t stay here, staring at numbers. Because every once in a while the thought creeps up on him— _what if you had never met Ian?_

Would Ian have found the money? Would he have told his dad eventually, or found some other stranger? Or would he just have kept getting worse and worse and weaker and weaker while Mickey lived on oblivious on the other side of town, drinking his life away?

What about the hundreds—thousands—of other people who go through the same thing, who can’t find their benevolent stockbroker who can just drop money into their lap? What about the people who have to watch them die, and do nothing, because there is nothing they can do?

Mickey had never even thought of them, before Ian. He’d never had reason to, not with his life, not with his privileges.

Now, it can’t just be numbers. Numbers are concepts, ideas, composed of lines and curves. They can’t feel pain, they can’t die, they can’t love, and they will never feel heartbreak. Not like people. Not like people that pass by every day on the streets, people hurting with a smile, people slowly dying.  
People who Mickey can help.

He’s going to help.

 

When Mickey gets home that evening, he finds Ian curled up on the couch, mindlessly channelsurfing under his pile of blankets.

“Hey,” Mickey says, leaning over the back of the couch. He wants to dip his head down just a little further and brush a kiss to Ian’s temple, but he can’t. Not until he knows how Ian will respond.

“Hi,” Ian replies, voice slurred. “How was your day?”

“Boring. How was your appointment?”

“Awful as always.”

Okay, so a kiss would probably be a bad idea. Mickey reaches down to pat his shoulder instead.

“Anything I can do?”

“Soup would be nice,” Ian croaks. Mickey nods and begins toward the kitchen. “Wait!” Mickey turns back to see Ian poking his head over the side of the couch, staring after him with a sheepish expression. “Can I change my mind?”

Mickey grins at him, sauntering back. “Of course.”

Ian curls his hands around the arm of the couch and lowers his eyes. “You, then? Can I ask for you?”

Mickey freezes for only a moment before swallowing and nodding.

He’s wanted. Not needed. He was needed for money, for support, for someone to love, but now this is not an ‘I need’, this is an ‘I want’, and suddenly the importance of what is happening splays across Mickey’s mind like a sudden shadow.

He climbs onto the couch beside Ian, and lets the other man tug him into his arms. Ian pulls him into his chest, tangles his fingers in Mickey’s hair, and curls his body around Mickey’s, like a shelter.

It feels so nice to be held.

“I love you,” Mickey says, because it seems like one of the only things he can possibly say right now.

“I know,” Ian replies, and he kisses Mickey’s forehead. “Thank you.”

 

Ian’s last radiation treatment is on the Friday, and that night, Mickey manages to coax Ian from the couch for a late night baking spree. Ian stands at the counter with a bowl of cookie dough in his hands, and Mickey presses up behind him, winding his arms down so he can hold Ian’s hands as he slowly stirs the dough around. The brush of his nose against Ian’s neck leaves a trail of flour, white and precious, like fresh canvas for new paint to find, and their hands are speckled with vanilla and sugar and small smears of chocolate. When the cookies are done, they sit together at the kitchen table, pulling the cookies apart, warm and gooey, and dunking them in glasses of milk. Ian laughs when he smears chocolate on his lip, and Mickey kisses it away, kissing away the stain.

The weekend is spent in much the same way. They are safe within the walls of the apartment, far from labels and judging eyes. Just Ian and Mickey, locked away from the world. Ian teaches Mickey how to make a soufflé, and Mickey shows Ian in turn how to play cribbage. Outside, winter retightens its grip on the city, and arrives in wind and snowstorms that make the windows shake and sky fill with flurries of snow, but inside is soft light and sweet kisses and movie marathons.

Three times, Ian has to go rushing to the bathroom to heave out everything in his stomach, and this time, he doesn’t protest when Mickey kneels at his side, runs a warm bath later, cleans him up.

They hold each other, like anchors. Because without the warmth of another person, what is to prevent you from drifting away?

And, slowly, Mickey comes to realize what it would mean to have Ian love him. It comes in small smiles following snarky comments, in the tapping of fingers to the beat of the music, in the fond eye rolls and small touches transferred hand to hand. It comes in little laughs at his corny jokes, in the sudden silences as Ian is carried off by his own thoughts, in the constant rearrangement of pillows and the humming as he takes cookies out of the oven. It comes in raised eyebrows and flickering eyes, in flashes of teeth when Mickey can make him really laugh, in small surprises, because whenever Mickey is certain he knows how Ian will react, Ian will undoubtedly do the opposite. It comes in the way Ian snuggles unconsciously into him at night, in the way he watches with amusement in his eyes as Mickey scurries around the apartment, in the way he snatches any scrap of spare paper to doodle on it aimlessly.

He begins to understand that the words do not even need to be said for him to know they’re true.

 

On Tuesday, Ian goes back to the oncologist to have the final scans done. Mickey picks him up there, letting himself out of work two hours early, signs some final paperwork with the office, and takes Ian’s hand to lead him out. Ian is jittery with nerves and excitement. In days, now, they’ll know if this is over, as over as it can ever be.

“What are you going to do?” Mickey asks him that night.

Ian shrugs and rests his head against Mickey’s chest. “We don’t know for sure if I’m better yet.”

“Even if you’re not better yet we both know we’ll just keep going until you are better, so…what are you going to do?”

Ian sighs, and is quiet for a few minutes. Finally, he speaks. “I had a lot of dreams when I was in high school. And I lost them all when I ran away.”

Mickey nods, and begins running his hands down Ian’s back, up and down, up and down.

“And I never thought I’d have another chance. But now…” Ian takes a deep breath. “I want to go to college. I want to study.”

“Do you know what?” Mickey asks.

Ian hums to himself. “I always wanted to be in the army. But I’m not sure anymore. I still…I still want to paint. But…more than that. Maybe a teacher? Could I do that?”

“You’ll be able to do anything you want to,” Mickey whispers. “I know it.”

 

It’s late at night on Wednesday when the phone rings. They’re already in bed, Ian combing his fingers through Mickey’s hair as they lie together in the dark, silent but for the sound of their breathing. Mickey is the one to push Ian back down and say, “I’ll get it.” He rolls out of bed and stumbles down the hallway and into the kitchen, managing to pick up on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Mickey?” He recognizes her voice instantly.

“Maya? What’s going on?”

“Can you come pick me up at the airport?”

Mickey frowns and blinks a few times, trying to clear his head of its sleepy haze. “What?”

“Are you deaf? Come pick me up at the airport!”

“Oh!” He pushes his hand through his hair distractedly and begins to pace, nearly stubbing his toe on the corner of the counter. “Where are you?”

“JFK. Terminal four. And it’s starting to snow on me, so could you hurry up?”

Mickey glances back towards the hallway. “We’ll be a while. If I gave you my address could you get a cab?”

“I don’t have any American money. This was sort of a last minute flight,” she snaps. “Now, how about you move your ass before my tits freeze off? Not that you’d care about the state of my tits.”

“We’re coming,” Mickey assures her. “Give us forty-five minutes.”

“Forty-fi…” she begins, but Mickey ends the call with a grin. He sets down the phone before scampering back to the bedroom. Ian has snuggled up under the blankets, and squirms when Mickey bounces up onto the bed.

“Mickey, who…?”

“Get dressed. We’re picking up Maya at the airport.”

“What?” Ian flies upright and nearly smashes their heads together. “She’s here? What about Italy?”

Mickey shrugs. It’s easier not to question it right now—there’ll be time for that later.

“Oh my God, oh my God…” Ian scrambles out of bed. “Clothes…I need clothes…”

Mickey heads for his dresser and pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a sweater. “Here, just wear these. Keep warm.”

Ian nods and yanks the sweater over his head, right on top of his pin-striped pajamas. The sweatpants are next, and Mickey winces when he sees how frail Ian looks in the chunky clothing. Mickey knows he is not a large man, not in any sense of the word, but Ian has lost so much weight from the stress and the side effects of radiation that the clothes drape off him.

Mickey throws on jeans and a sweatshirt and allows Ian to grab his hand and drag him into the hallway. “Did she tell you anything? Anything at all?”

“No,” Mickey tells him. “Just that she’s here and freezing her boobs off.”

“Of course.” They grab their shoes by the front door and yank them on. “Wallet?”

Mickey stops, and runs back across the floor to the kitchen counter, snatching his keys and wallet. “Okay, let’s go.”

 

The airport blooms bright in the night sky, illuminating the snow that falls around it. Ian is quivering in his seat with anticipation as the taxi follows the street signs towards terminal four, dodging traffic and kicking up flurries of snow in its wake.

It’s as the round the crescent of the road towards the terminal parking that they spot the lone figure perched up on of the cement road blocks at the edge of the sidewalk, clothes blowing in the wind and suitcase at her feet. Ian reaches out and grips Mickey’s hand, squeezing hard. “Oh my God, there she is.”

Mickey leans forward and points her out to the cabbie. “Could you pull up over there?” The driver nods, and the taxi swerves over to the side of the road. Maya looks up as the cab lights hit her, and Mickey sees her eyes widen. She hops off the road block, brushing her hair back under her cap. Ian’s grip on Mickey’s hand turns painful.

The cab stops, and the doors unlock. Ian’s out the door and onto the sidewalk in seconds. “Maya!” he screams, and then they’re running at each other, catapulting into each other’s arms. Ian picks her up, spins them around in a flurry of scarves and skirts and jackets, and already Mickey can see they’re crying. He quickly asks the cabbie to wait for them and scrambles out after Ian, dashing across the snow. Maya has her head buried in Ian’s shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck,  and Mickey can hear her whispering Ian’s name, over and over and over into the thickness of his sweater as the fat flakes fall down around them and litter them with white.

Ian pulls away for just a moment and cups her face in his hands, thumbs stroking across the tears on her cheeks. “Wh-what about Karen?”

“I left her,” Maya gasps, as if she can’t quite believe it herself. She probably can’t. “I-I-I had to come back.”

“Oh Maya…” Ian breathes, and then they’re hugging again, eyes shut tight. “Maya you didn’t have to…”

“No,” she mumbles. “I did. I needed you. If she wants to be with me, then it’s her turn to prove it.”

“Maya…”

“I haven’t talked to you enough. Are you okay? Please say you’re okay. Please, please say you’re okay…” She reaches her hands up, jerks them away when she notices the bare patches on his head. “Oh God, what…? Ian, I…I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

She turns her head and stares at Mickey, shaking her head back and forth. “I would have come back, I would have come back if I…I should have been here, I’m sorry…”

“I’m okay, Maya,” Ian tells her quietly. “I’m okay.”

“I just missed you so much,” she whispers, and hides her face in his chest. He wraps his arms around her, strokes the back of her head.

“I’m okay. I’m okay,” he murmurs, and his eyes dart over to Mickey, a small smile crossing his face. “Mickey took care of me.”

Mickey doesn’t think he did anything of the sort, but when Maya detaches herself from Ian and throws herself at Mickey, squeezing him tight and whispering ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you’, he holds her back. And when Ian comes up beside them and kisses Mickey’s cheek before circling them both with his arms, Mickey thinks this feels like a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	15. Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably what you have been waiting for...

Mickey isn’t surprised when he steps out of the shower the next morning to find Maya standing in front of the closed door, brandishing her curling iron. She’s still dressed in one of Ian’s tshirts, which hangs down to about mid-thigh, her hair in tangles down her shoulders like the tattered veil of an abandoned bride. She looks so young without make-up, even with the murderous expression on her face—an odd dichotomy that catches him off guard, naked and dripping wet, until she speaks.  
“Right, you and me need to talk.”

“Of course.” Mickey purses his lips and grabs his towel from the hook, wrapping it around his waist quickly before she can get even more of an eyeful. “This is about Ian, right?”

She crosses her arms, hand still clenched around the curling iron. “What are you doing with him?”

“Is he still asleep?” Mickey heads for the counter and grabs his shaving supplies out of the drawer to begin putting shaving cream on his stubble. She nods at him in the mirror.

“Yeah. He seems exhausted.”

“Well…” Mickey shrugs. Of course Ian is exhausted. But Maya wouldn’t know. She left him. She wasn’t here to hold his hand in the waiting room, here for when Ian opened his eyes and pretended to forget, here for the nights spent passed out on the bathroom floor, here watching every day as Ian only seemed to get weaker and more hopeless. Just because she came back last night and slept wrapped in his arms on the couch doesn’t make up for that. She wasn’t here and she can never change that.

“Stop that,” Maya snaps, taking a step forward.

“Stop what?”

“Judging me. And don’t even try to pretend you aren’t, because I know what it looks like.” She narrows her eyes. “Now, what are you doing with him?”

“That’s between Ian and me,” Mickey tells her simply.

“Oh like hell it is!” she snarls, coming up behind him to shove at his shoulder—he yanks the razor away from his jaw just in time. “Whatever you’re doing with him, I need to know.”

“Really? Why? You were just thanking me last night!”

“Yeah, for taking care of him!” She slams the curling iron down on the counter so she can raise her hands for the air quotations. “Not for ‘taking care of him’!”

“We’re not having sex!” Mickey shoots back.

She stops, and frowns. “You’re not?”

“No!”

“Why not?” she asks, suddenly sounding completely confused. She blinks and shakes her head before giving him another bewildered look and hopping up to sit on the counter. She raises the curling iron and points it straight at him. “You fucked up, didn’t you?” she accuses.

“Why does everything have to automatically be my fault?”

“Because I’ll automatically take Ian’s side in any argument, so it saves time.” She lifts one eyebrow coolly when he sends her an unimpressed look. “What?”

Mickey groans and runs his hand through his hair, sending little droplets of water scurrying down his back.

“Look. Maya. Ian’s going to find out soon whether he’s alright or not, he’s spent the last three weeks going through radiation therapy, and before that he had brain surgery. Even if we wanted to have sex, there wouldn’t have been time.” Mickey shrugs, and moves the razor back to his face.

“So you don’t want to have sex?” She lowers the curling iron slowly. “You have seen him, right?” Mickey drops the razor in the sink and turns to stare at her. “Do you want us to have sex or not? Because I’m getting mixed messages here.”

She huffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I’m trying to look out for him. I don’t want you two fucking if you’re just going to break his heart. And you’ll break his heart.”

“You don’t know that!” Mickey counters.

“Yes I do.” She turns her head and stares at the shower curtain resolutely.

“How?”

“Because things like this don’t work out.” He can see the muscles in her jaw working as she swallows. “Prince Charming doesn’t just show up out of nowhere and you ride off into the sunset together. It won’t work.”

“It can…”

“No.” She whips her head around to snap at him. “No it doesn’t!”

That’s when he sees the wetness gathering in the corners of her eyes.

Mickey gives up the shaving and wipes the cream from his face before facing her. “Maya…” he whispers, “I know that things didn’t work out between you and Karen, but that doesn’t mean the same thing is going to happen to me and Ian.”

She bites her lip and glares at him, but doesn’t say a word.

Mickey takes a deep breath and dares to continue. “You need to let her go.”

“No I don’t!” she spits, cutting off the end of his sentence.

He frowns. “So you’re just going to go from following her around the world waiting for her to staying here and waiting for her? Maya…”

“You don’t…” She shakes her head from side to side.

“Look.” He reaches forward and grabs her knee, stopping the motion. “It’s okay to love her. And it’s okay to want her back. But you’re just making yourself hurt, doing this.” He smiles grimly at her. “I’ve been in love with Ian almost since I met him. And when he left, I couldn’t see the point of it. And I tried other guys, and focusing on other things. And it still hurt. But then I found him again. So…” He squeezes her knee reassuringly, her skin smooth beneath his palm with only the barest tickle of hair. “I know it hurts like hell. I know. But I also know that Karen cares about you, and if it’s meant to be, then she’ll come find you.” When she meets his eyes, he smiles, small and sad but real. “You’re worth finding, Maya.”

Her face twists, and she hangs her head. “I’m not,” she murmurs.

“Maya…”

“No.” She grabs his hand off her knee and holds it. “I’m not. And I know that. But Ian is.” She lifts her head and holds his gaze, eyes bright. “And you need to tell him that every single damn day. You need to fucking worship him, you understand? Tell him you love him, and never, ever hurt him. Ever. And…and you need to love him as hard as you’ll ever love anything in the universe, and do that forever. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Mickey tells her immediately. “I promise. I love him so much, Maya…”

“Then prove that fairytales exist,” she says. “Do that for me.”

 

When Mickey gets home from work that night, Ian has started to paint again. He’s spread his canvas out on the kitchen table, the paint at his fingertips, with soft music playing from the stereo in the living room. Maya is sprawled on the couch, thumbing through a magazine and bobbing her head along with the beat. Mickey hangs up his coat and drops his bag in the hall, and she glances over at him before giving a small wave. Mickey returns it.

Ian doesn’t look up until Mickey has joined him in the kitchen, but when he does, it’s with a beaming smile. “Hi.”

“You’re painting,” Mickey says, unable to articulate anything else. Because he can remember the first time he saw Ian paint, last year already, New Year’s Eve, and how by that second time, Mickey was  already falling for him. He can remember the feel of Ian warm against his back, the slick slide of paint between his fingers, the rough drag of the canvas, remembers painted trees, and people, and thoughts and memories, and snowflakes and french-fries and walks in the park, and how he’d been so screwed up and fucked over by his own expectations, drowning himself in drink, and how Ian had reached in there and plucked him out and made him remember what it felt like to dream, because suddenly he dreamed of Ian and what they could be together.

Last time, though, Ian had painted people in sickly yellow. Now, he paints flowers with the pads of his fingers, in blue and purple and red and green. New life.

“Yes, I’m painting.” Ian reaches for a light blue tube of paint and squeezes some out. “I felt like it.”

“That’s good.” Mickey smiles at Ian, who grins back at him. It’s so easy, like this, and Mickey wishes he could make Ian smile forever.

“Paint with me?” Ian asks, offering a tube of yellow, and Mickey will never be able to say no to that. So he sits, and he paints, and Ian smiles at him all the way through it.

 

It’s Friday when they get the call from the hospital, asking Ian to come in the next day for his appointment. Ian talks to the nurse, pacing nervously the entire time and biting at this lip. “Is it gone though?” he asks her multiple times, and Mickey watches his face as he listens to the answer. When he finally hangs up, he turns to Mickey and Maya, seated together on the couch, and smiles weakly. “She said it’s good news,” he says. “She hasn’t seen the scans herself, but she says the oncologist says it’s good.”

Maya folds double in her seat, hand flying out and clutching at Mickey’s. “Oh thank God,” she whispers, and then she’s up from the couch and squeezing Ian tight, and they’re both tearing up as they hold each other, swinging gently from side to side. Mickey sits back and lets the information soak in—good news. It’s good news.

Ian’s going to live.

And suddenly, there’s a whole new future for him to dream.

But why does it feel like nothing has changed?

Mickey doesn’t even notice he’s crying—crying with relief, with disappointment that nothing feels different, with unknown emotions that somehow need to be expressed through tears—until Ian sits down beside him and pulls him into his arms, stroking his hair and murmuring ‘Shhh…’ as Mickey turns his face into Ian’s chest and clings to him.

It should be the other way around.

“I need to see it for myself,” Ian tells him when Mickey expresses this out loud. “I just…need to see the scans myself, and then I’ll believe it.”

Mickey can respect that, and thinks, partially, that’s what his problem is as well. How can you just accept something that changed your life for so long is just gone, without seeing it for yourself? He kisses Ian’s temple and leans against his shoulder, and watches as Ian orders Maya to his feet and threads his fingers through her hair in soothing strokes.

Mickey sleeps alone again that night, and he can hear Ian and Maya whispering to each other, giggling softly as they exchange stories and catch-up. He wonders what Maya is feeling now. She knows Ian is going to live, seems to have accepted it without the reassurance that Mickey and Ian both need, that she’ll have that one person who loves her and adores her, even if her own personal fairytale has gone horribly wrong. She’ll always have one prince to carry her away into the sunset, even if she only really wants a princess.

And, in this way, she hasn’t failed to protect him. Even if Maya didn’t notice in high school                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 until it was too late, now she’s aware, and she can hold Ian in her arms and try to keep him safe.

He wonders if that will be enough this time.

 

The next day, Mickey brings Ian in for his final appointment with the doctor. Maya tells Ian she can come too, but he just pushes her back to the couch and says he’s fine. She’s still exhausted and moody, and will probably do no good at the hospital besides perhaps annoy the nurses. So Mickey calls the two of them a taxi, and they sit silent all the way to the hospital, hands clenched tight between them. Somehow, Ian ends up with his head leaning on Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey kisses his hair and threads an arm around behind his back.

He must be so tired. He’s been fighting for years—against bullies, against his own guilt, against hunger and poverty and then against something in his own head—and now there’s a chance for him to stop, to actually rest and recover and remember what it means to have a chance.

Mickey wouldn’t be surprised if Ian goes back to the apartment and wants to sleep for months.

The cabbie drops them off at the front of the hospital and they walk hand in hand through the front, doors, to the elevator, down the hallway to the oncologist’s office. Ian goes to sit in one of the plushy waiting room chairs with the other silent patients as Mickey heads to the counter and checks in. He signs the forms for the payment plans, and once again, thinks about the people out there without the money to do such a thing, the people who will die because of a stupid thing like numbers printed on green slips of paper.

Ian has closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the wall, hands working uselessly in the hem of his shirt, when Mickey gets back to him. He doesn’t react when Mickey sits down next to him. Mickey considers picking up a magazine, but one glance at the cover tells him that reading about some  reality star’s boob job gone wrong won’t help at all—maybe triviality can keep people from seeing the problems in the first place, but it does a really awful job of covering it over. Mickey wonders if it works for some people. It must. Otherwise, how could the world be such a messed up place, if distractions like movie stars and cat videos didn’t capture so much more attention than people starving in the streets?

When the nurse comes in and calls Ian’s name, he opens his eyes slowly and turns to stare at Mickey, as if searching for confirmation.

“I’m right here,” Mickey mutters, leaning in and catching Ian’s cheek in the palm of his hand. “You got this.”

Ian takes a shuddering breath, eyes flickering over the nurse waiting patiently in the door before they return to Mickey. “I’m scared,” he whispers.

Mickey smiles weakly at him. “Courage,” he says, and instantly he’s not sure what the point of it is. His words can’t do anything—he can’t take away Ian’s fear any more than he could somehow erase the last years of Ian’s life and give them to him anew. He wants to do both so badly. But words are pointless things, useless, and Mickey hates it, because even those words he kept so close to himself, when said out loud, were entirely useless as well. And does he—the boy who ran away to private school, who followed mindlessly in his parents’ wishes, who found a place in a mundane office painted in tones of beige and only found his way out when Ian barreled into his life with the smell of paint on his fingers and a sharpie tucked behind his ear—even have any courage to give?

But Ian still takes it, his lips twitching up as he reaches over to squeeze Mickey’s hands, and then he’s walking away, buoyed on Mickey’s gift of courage that really doesn’t exist at all, because Mickey can’t give him something that he doesn’t have.

That’s not true though, Mickey realizes as he watches Ian follow the nurse through to the doctor’s office. He’s learned it, learned how to brave, in these past few months.

Maybe it’s not the same type of bravery. He never rode off to slay a dragon or defeat a witch or become some sort of chivalrous prince. He never kept himself alive in New York City from the age of seventeen, interviewing for every miniscule job New York could offer and then battling against an intruder in his head for over a year and a half. He hasn’t dealt with constant heartbreak, chasing his love halfway across the world only to realize that someone else needs him more, and abandoning that thing that has defined him for so long. No, he doesn’t have those sorts of bravery.

But he has that sort that keeps him going. The sort that allowed him to love Ian, even when everything else was falling apart, with that sort of passionate love that most people would call insanity. The sort that allowed him to brush aside the consistencies of his life, the ‘have-beens’, and see instead the ‘could bes’, even when the could bes are so much more terrifying. And while some people might look at that and not see bravery, Mickey knows that it is. He doesn’t need anyone else to tell him.

For the first time in a long time, Mickey feels brave.

 

It’s half an hour before Ian lets himself back into the waiting room, closing the door gently behind him. Mickey is at his side instantly, and Ian turns to him, pale and exhausted, but with a wonder lighting his skin.

“It’s gone,” Ian whispers, staring at Mickey with wide and misting eyes. “It’s all…done. It’s done.”

And suddenly everything is real.

“Thank God,” Mickey murmurs, and then Ian is in his arms, clinging tight to his shoulders with the tears spilling down his cheeks. Ian pulls back, places his hands on Mickey’s face, and kisses him, hard, right there in the middle of the waiting room. As if they’ve been doing that for ages, as if they’re just a normal couple, that kisses and hugs and says ‘I love you’ every day without restrictions, without complications. His mouth is warm, and wet, and desperate.

He’s shaking in Mickey’s grasp.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay…” Mickey whispers when they pull apart. Because it is. It really is.

Ian gives a watery laugh and buries his face in Mickey’s shoulder. “I can’t believe it’s over,” he mutters. “I just…I can’t…”

Mickey rubs his back and closes his eyes, blocking the stares of the people around them. “You did it. You did it Ian. I’m so proud of you.”

“Me too,” Ian giggles. Mickey chuckles, and opens his eyes.

Only now that Ian believes it can it actually be over. It’s not some sort of sick dream, but a reality.

Ian is alive, and safe, and healthy.

Mickey can barely wrap his head around the idea.

He remembers when he first met Ian, when he didn’t even know his name. Just a stranger in a bar, that random twenty-something bar-goer who pitied Mickey for being lonely and disappeared out of his life just as suddenly as he’d arrived. And then back again, named now, with paint on his hands and a promise of happiness, someone who Mickey could love but not really know. Disappearing once more for eight months, and then back again on the dirty floor of a bar, and suddenly sick, hopeless but not helpless, and suddenly someone that Mickey could know and love but wasn’t supposed to.

Now what is he? A broken person glued back together. Someone lost who knows the way now.

He’s the person Mickey loves and wants to be with for the rest of his life. And now he has that chance.

“I love you so much,” Mickey whispers, and watches as Ian freezes and his eyes soften.

Ian can’t say it back yet, Mickey understands. Not so quick, not so easy. “I know,” he says instead, but it’s good enough. He kisses Mickey’s nose and smiles. “Let’s go home.”

 

The kissing starts in the elevator ride up, and Mickey falls into it—he’s wanted this for so long now he doesn’t bother to question. Hot and quick, with hands already untucking shirts and ruffling hair. Ian pins Mickey to the wall and laughs as he kisses down his jaw, his neck. “How long do you think Maya would be mad at us if we kick her out?”

“A long time,” Mickey replies, grinning as he tilts Ian’s head back up to catch his lips in his own.

“Mmm…let’s do it anyway.” The elevator shifts and stops, and the door slides open. Ian kisses him one more time before grabbing his hand and dragging Mickey down the hall to his apartment. Mickey unlocks the door with fumbling hands, and they tumble inside, Ian immediately shutting the door and pressing Mickey up against it. Mickey fits his hands to the dip of Ian’s waist and his mouth to the curve of his neck, nipping at the skin there and making Ian gasp. This feels so natural, so right, and Mickey’s can’t remember why they haven’t been doing this all along.

“Hey, how’d it…whoa!”

They tear away from each other to find Maya staring at them from the hallway. She makes a face and clutches her mug tighter. “I take it no unpleasant surprises? Because I did not need to see that.”

“Then you might want to go out for a couple of hours,” Ian tells her with a smirk. She blanches, and retreats to the kitchen.

“Give me five minutes, good Lord.”

“Three!” Ian calls after her.

“Give me time to finish my coffee!”

“Two!”

“Fuck you!”

“Planning on it!” Ian sings back, and Mickey blushes. Ian grins at him and takes his hand, pulling him away from the door, across the living room, and towards the bedroom. He closes the door behind them and kisses Mickey again, biting his lip and swaying from side to side when he’s done, eyes shining in the afternoon light streaming through the window. It’s shy, and sweet, and Mickey remembers  the Ian he’d held in bed, those first kisses. That very first kiss that Mickey had stopped in the shower.

Mickey frowns slightly and places his hands on Ian’s face.

“Ian…what are we doing?”

Ian sighs, and places his hands over Mickey’s, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I really don’t know actually. I have no clue what’s going to happen next. But…I do know that right now, in this moment…I really want to be with you. Now that…that I know it all won’t be over soon. That this can be forever.” He reopens his eyes and smiles tentatively. “You…you mean a lot to me, Mickey. This….this would mean something, to me. A lot, actually.”

“You want to…you want to sleep together?”

Ian wrinkles his nose. “I’ve had a lot of one-night stands. I think, for once, I’d like to know there will still be someone beside me in the morning. Someone who loves me.” He takes Mickey’s hands and swings them down between them, looking down. “Someone who might have made me love him back.”

Mickey leans forward and kisses him, slipping his tongue between the plush velvet of Ian’s lips and reveling in the taste of him, minty and cool.

There’s a sudden knocking on the door behind them, and Maya calls through, “You have until nine!” Her footsteps retreat down the hall, and they hear the front door slam shut.

Mickey raises an eyebrow and glances at Ian, who bites his lip to stifle a laugh. “How do you do this, again?”

“I generally find kissing you until I can’t breathe is a good start.”

“I like that.”

Mickey grins and kisses him again, hands working around Ian’s back to ruck his shirt up out of his pants. He slips his hands underneath, fingers kneading into the muscles of his back. Ian presses forward, tilting Mickey back and forcing him towards the bed. They topple over together, Ian pressing his full weight into Mickey and keeping him down. The comforter furls around them in billowing waves, cool and clean and alight with sun, and Mickey flips them over so Ian is on his back. Ian smiles up at him and raises his arms above his head seductively. His cheeks are bright and flushed, his hair ruffled, his lips swollen and stained red. He already looks thoroughly debauched. Mickey lowers his head to nip at his neck—Ian’s skin practically colors pink at the contact, and Mickey knows already that he wants to mark his body up until Ian unravels beneath him. He slides his hands up the front of Ian’s chest, skimming over ribs and muscles, and pulls up his shirt until he can move down and press a kiss to the hollow of Ian’s ribcage. He darts his tongue out and swirls it into his navel, licking down to the tops of his pants and blowing on the trail he leaves behind. Ian moans and thrashes his legs impatiently. Mickey kisses him, right above the waistband of his pants, and pops the button. He slides the zipper down slowly and moves his hands down to Ian’s knees, bunching the fabric and sliding his pants down by a few inches.

“Do you really suck that much at taking clothes off?” Ian asks, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Shush you.” Mickey kisses the top of his thigh, right beneath the seam of his boxer-briefs. “I’m worshipping you.”

“You are not.” Ian laughs and wriggles up the bed, reaching down and dragging his pants and socks off before Mickey can stop him. “I’m not a god.”

Mickey throws himself back up the bed and pins Ian down. “Are to me,” he mumbles, burying his face in Ian’s neck. His fingers start fumbling with Ian’s shirt once more.

“Take turns!” Ian chastises him, and he starts with the buttons of Mickey’s shirt, one by one. His fingers are cool against Mickey’s chest, the touch fleeting, but before long he strokes his hands up over Mickey’s shoulders and down his arms, slipping the shirt away. “Much better.” He lifts his head and kisses the junction between Mickey’s chest and shoulder. Mickey leans in to fit their mouths together once more, and skims his hand down Ian’s leg, palm brushing against the light smattering of hair. He grips him gently behind the knee and brings his leg up and around Mickey’s own waist, and Ian pulls Mickey against him tighter, giving a small whimper when their hips jot together. He rolls his hips upwards, and even though there’s still far too much fabric between them to do much, Mickey still feels the rush of heat and blood downwards. Ian presses up against him again, and again, beginning to get a steady rhythm going, before groaning and unslinging his leg. “Pants off. Now. Please.” He rolls away and starts to pull his shirt over his head, chucking it onto the pillows. Mickey moves quickly to undo the button of his jeans and yank them off his legs, followed by his socks.

Ian grins and yanks Mickey back on top of him, threading his legs back over him and forcing them together. Their cocks brush through the thin barrier of their underwear, and Ian starts thrusting up steadily into Mickey, his breath starting to come faster and more ragged. Mickey moves so he can support his weight on one arm and works his other hand down to Ian’s hips, yanking him up as he rolls himself down.

He’d thought he had some idea of what this would feel like, from nights spent pressed naked body against naked body, but now, having Ian beneath him panting into his neck as he bucks his hips up, it’s so different from what he’d imagined. Warm and supple and dynamic, always moving with the thrum of blood beneath their veins. He can feel his cock hardening with every stroke of their bodies, and Ian is beginning to clutch at his back and move faster and faster, breath escaping in sharp gasps.

“Wait…” Mickey stops, presses himself onto Ian and stilling him. “We can…slow down. We have time.”

“Or we could just fuck multiple times. I like that option,” Ian mutters, squirming beneath him and grinning impishly when Mickey groans. “Can I blow you? Please?”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey whispers, and then Ian is flipping them over and sliding down Mickey’s body, licking and nipping as he goes. Mickey knows that generally, the first time with someone is  supposed to be filled with small insecurities—is my dick too small, is that small bit of pudge around my waist a huge turn-off, am I too hairy?—but he’s spent too many nights wrapped up in Ian for it to matter anymore. They’ve seen each other more naked in more ways than Mickey would have thought possible, and this new form of intimacy has no stress, no worries attached. Mickey lets go, and knows he’s safe.

Ian latches his mouth to Mickey’s hip and begins to bite gently and suck, lavishing the sting with his tongue. Mickey throws his head back into the blankets and tries not to move as Ian licks across to his other hipbone and moves his hands to the tops of Mickey’s briefs, tugging them slowly down his legs before tossing them to the floor. He kisses Mickey’s stomach, once, and Mickey props himself up on his elbows just in time to catch Ian’s saucy wink before he grips the base of Mickey’s cock in one hand and sinks his mouth down over it. His lips are soft and warm and wet, sliding down, and his tongue trails along the prominent vein of the underside, teasing and ticklish. He moves his head down a few inches, and sucks his lips tight before dragging back up.

“Oh God,” Mickey gasps, neck arching back towards the ceiling, and he forces himself not to buck up into the heat of Ian’s mouth. “Oh God, oh God, oh…”

Ian moans around his cock and releases it with a slick ‘pop’ of his lips. “I have an awful gag reflex,” he warns Mickey. “So don’t move, or I’ll probably throw up all over you.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Mickey whimpers, and Ian takes his cock back in his mouth, lips stretched tight and pink and silky around him. His tongue darts back out to tease the vein, and he starts moving up and down, never more than a few inches, teasing. Mickey fists clench and unclench in the blankets, and he’s torn between staring down at Ian and back up at the ceiling. Ian has an expression of intense concentration, and he moves one hand to pin down Mickey’s hips, which have started to circle in the air involuntarily.

“Shit, sorry…”

Ian pulls off and shrugs. “It’s fine.” He bends back over and takes the very tip of Mickey’s cock in his mouth, pressing his tongue into the slit and lapping at the precome gathering there.

“Oh _fuck_!” Mickey’s hands fly up to his hair, wrapping around it and tugging. “Ian, fuck…”

“Mmm…” Ian hums, and continues to lick around the tip, occasionally bobbing his head down a little bit and sucking back up. His other hand reaches up and wraps around the rest of Mickey’s cock, stroking slowly up and down, sliding in the pre-come and spit his mouth has left behind. He begins moving his hand faster and faster, and Mickey loses control of his vocal cords, crying out and groaning with each movement. He’s barely aware of the fact Ian has started to rut against the bed, his movements bouncing the mattress up and down with every thrust. Suddenly, he moves his mouth down, lifts Mickey’s hips with his hands, and licks, hot and wet, across Mickey’s perineum and up around his balls. Mickey shouts and his eyes slam shut as Ian does it again, and he knows he’s muttering frantically to himself. He feels Ian pull away, and then his mouth is on Mickey’s, forcing his tongue  between his lips. He reaches his hand down and begins to jerk Mickey off rapidly, shifting so he can press his own cock against Mickey’s leg and begin moving against him.

“Ian Ian Ian Ian _Jesus Christ_!” Mickey’s legs thrash as he feels his orgasm build, that familiar tightening in his lower stomach that spreads through his limbs.

“Come on, Mick, come on,” Ian urges in a whisper, sucking Mickey’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting as he swipes his thumb over Mickey’s slit and tightens his grip. Mickey gasps and cries out wordlessly and suddenly he’s coming all over Ian’s hand and his own stomach, sticky on his skin, and Ian just keeps working him through it even as he bucks against Mickey’s leg desperately.

Mickey whimpers as his orgasm begins to wind down, leaving his cock soft and oversensitive. Ian removes his hand and flips over onto his back beside Mickey, moving his come-covered hand to begin jerking himself off. His head slams back and his eyes flutter shut, the motion of his arm shaky and arrhythmic with need.

Mickey fights to get his breathing back under control and rolls over onto his side, feeling like his limbs have turned into jelly. “Let me,” he murmurs, kissing up Ian’s neck lazily. He reaches down and removes Ian’s hand, replacing it with his own and starting to move it up and down Ian’s cock. Ian comes with a soft sigh in minutes, hips lifting up until the air as his come spatters over his stomach, and then collapsing back down to the bed. Mickey covers him with kisses—on his lips, his eyelids, his nose, his jaw. “I love you, love you, love you, love you…” he whispers between every brush of his mouth.

Eventually, Ian raises himself up onto his elbows and quirks and eyebrow at his come-covered stomach. He bites his lip and turns to Mickey with a smile. “I’m going to go shower real quick, okay?”

Mickey stares at him, the feeling of abandonment striking him even in his post-orgasmic bliss. “Don’t you want to cuddle?”

“We’ll cuddle after we’re done,” Ian tells him, leaning over for a quick kiss. “I just want to wash up.”

Oh. _Oh_. Mickey pushes himself up and winces as he feels the slick slide of the come on his skin.

“Here.” Ian reaches out to grab his discarded shirt, and swipes the come from his chest before passing it Mickey. “Just…give me fifteen minutes.” He stands up, back to Mickey and stretches his arms above his head, so relaxed, so casual with his muscles shifting and straining beneath the smooth skin of his back as he silhouettes himself against the sun. And Mickey is so thankful he stopped them in the shower that night, because this is what sex is supposed to be—kisses and teasing and softness and warmth, not frantic shoving and sliding beneath sheets of cold water. Ian turns his head back towards the bed, eyes half-hooded and lips swollen pink, a flush up his cheekbone. The dust motes dance in the sunlight around him like little tiny planets, lost in a galaxy, and Mickey is pretty sure this is one of the most beautiful sights he’ll ever see.

This is Ian, here in front of him, the one with the easy smile and the gentle lift of an eyebrow as he regards Mickey fondly. He’s not a stranger, not an angel, not a dream, not a victim of circumstances, but wholly himself and only himself, and Mickey sees it now. Sees it in the way Ian holds himself, shoulders back and without shame, in the way his fingers curl slowly towards his palms and back out again in a simple motion, in the way he reaches up to push his hair back from his face. Right now, he’s not defined by what he’s lost, but what he has, and Mickey knows that Ian will come to discover this as well, remember what it’s like to move on and start new dreams.

“What?” Ian asks him, shifting so he can face Mickey.

Mickey shrugs and wipes the come from his stomach before setting the shirt aside and turning his gaze back to Ian. “I just really love you, is all.”

Ian frowns slightly, and leans back over the bed, placing his hands on Mickey’s thighs and moving in for a chaste kiss. “You take my breath away,” he whispers, pulling away and dragging his nose along Mickey’s jaw slowly, his eyelashes fluttering against Mickey’s skin. He can’t say ‘I love you too’, not so easy, not just like that, and Mickey understands. The way Ian kisses him says all he needs.

“You better hop in the shower,” Mickey whispers, patting Ian’s ass fondly. “Or I might ravish you right now.”

“Gimme fifteen minutes,” Ian reminds him with a smirk, and he breezes away, the clouds of dust particles furrowing in the air behind him as he walks to the bathroom and shuts the door.

Mickey falls back into the blankets and allows himself to lie there for a few more minutes, waiting for the steadiness to return to his limbs as he hears the shower begin to run. He hops off the bed and gathers up their discarded clothes, dumping them in the laundry basket. He sets Ian’s come-stained shirt on top, and grabs the stain remover out of the closet and sets it nearby so he’ll remember to treat it later. He folds the top blankets down on the bed, arranging them neatly, and quickly clears away his knick-knacks from the bedside table. There. Much better.

He doesn’t notice when the shower turns off, but after a few minutes of walking aimlessly around the room and debating whether or not to put something on, he does notice the silence. He runs his hands through his hair distractedly and goes to sit on the bed, back up against the headboard and the sheets pulled up to his waist. After a few minutes, Ian pokes his head out of the bathroom. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Mickey greets him, grinning. It’s so easy, to be like this, comfortable with each other and their bodies, even this first time, and Mickey realizes that while they might not have a fairy tale romance where everything is perfect and normal and safe, he wouldn’t ever want to change it, not if it meant giving up these moments.

Ian moves across the room, stepping in the sunbeams, and bounces up onto the bed. His hair is still wet, and small drops of water rain down on his shoulders with the motion, running down his skin in shining tracks. He crawls up on top of Mickey, perching himself in his lap, and threads his fingers in Mickey’s hair before ducking his head and kissing him, hot and open-mouthed and slow. Mickey’s hands  find their way to Ian’s hip, squeezing and kneading, and then somehow slide down to cup Ian’s ass.

Ian moans and arches into the touch, and Mickey takes the opportunity to nudge his jaw up and begin kissing up his neck, finding that spot behind his ear and lapping at the water gathered there.

“Good God,” Ian gasps, and Mickey can feel his throat moving as he speaks. “Mickey, I….”

Mickey hums and begins to suck, soothing the skin with his tongue even as he marks it. His hands spread Ian’s ass cheeks apart, and he runs his fingers down and back up his crack, just barely teasing with the tip of his finger. Ian’s hands tighten in Mickey’s hair, and he whines, high and sharp, as Mickey circles one finger around his hole, feather light. “Mickey, please, just…”

Mickey snatches his hands away and wraps them around Ian’s back, shifting suddenly so Ian is thrown onto his back with Mickey on top of him. They bounce together on the mattress, fitting their mouths together and panting into each other’s mouth, before Mickey has his hands on Ian’s knees and is bending them up into his chest. Ian reaches up and holds onto the backs of his thighs, flushed and smiling. Mickey kisses him once more before running his hands down his legs, grasping and spreading his cheeks once more. He’s meticulously clean, which tells Mickey exactly what Ian was doing for those fifteen minutes, and the very thought of Ian preparing himself for this makes Mickey’s cock twitch. Ian’s hole is colored a dusky dark pink, and he shivers when Mickey lowers his head and breathes a cool stream of air over him. “Is this okay?” Mickey asks, and he notices how raspy his voice has gotten.

“Yeah,” Ian breathes, and Mickey doesn’t need any more confirmation. He leans in and presses a kiss to Ian’s center, pulling away and nuzzling at his leg. He licks his lips and kisses again, and again, and Ian gasps and whimpers above him, fingers flexing on the muscles of his legs. Finally, Mickey dips his tongue out, and runs it flat over the puckered skin. Ian swears and whispers, “More, please, God…” and Mickey obliges, darting his tongue to lick softly around the rim, just light touches of tongue.

He’s never done this before, not with anyone, and the intimacy of it makes him shiver. To have Ian spread before him--so vulnerable, so new, so beautiful—is both terrifying and thrilling but he also can’t think of anyone else he would ever want to do this with, for the rest of his life.

When he finally gathers the spit on his tongue and presses through the ring of muscle, Ian yells and lets go of his legs. He catches himself before he hits Mickey, but Mickey just draws his tongue out, giving another light kiss over his entrance and pulling Ian’s legs down so his knees fall over Mickey’s shoulders. Ian lifts his head and stares down across the expanse of his stomach to Mickey, eyes wild and hair in disarray as he pants and moves a hand down to begin stroking himself. Mickey kisses the underside of his cock around Ian’s fingers and spreads Ian’s legs farther before shuffling down and sliding his tongue back in, swirling it around and pressing, stretching Ian out. Ian whimpers, and Mickey begins to thrust in and out with a steady rhythm, hoping Ian can feel every drag, every sensation. He loses himself in the movements, closes his eyes and just focuses on the soft sounds Ian makes as he fucks him with his tongue. Soon, it’s too much, and Mickey snakes a hand down to wrap around his cock, beginning to stroke himself very slowly as he presses his tongue around and draws it back into his mouth, exploring the taste—skin and sweat and sex and a touch of what Mickey thinks must be body lotion.

He removes Ian’s legs from his shoulders and stills his hand. Ian props himself up on his elbows and smiles weakly at him as Mickey crawls up to lick his way into Ian’s mouth. Their cocks rub together as he lowers himself over Ian’s body, and Mickey groans. Ian laughs weakly and takes Mickey’s earlobe between his teeth. “Do you have lube?” he whispers.

“Yeah…yeah…” Mickey scrambles off of Ian and towards the night stand. He whips the drawer open and grabs a condom out from beneath his copy of The Tempest and tosses it on the bed before rummaging around, searching for the bottle of lube. “Um…”

“What?” Ian comes up behind him and drapes himself over Mickey’s back, peppering his shoulders with kisses.

“I thought I had it…” Mickey yelps as Ian whacks him on the back of his head.

“You don’t have lube?”

“I’ll find some! Ow!”

“Go!”

Mickey nearly falls off the bed in his haste and dashes for the bathroom, throwing the door open and slamming the cupboards open, hands fumbling through baskets and bins to find that elusive bottle. His legs are wobbly, and he leans against the sink to keep himself upright. He hears Ian come in after him just as he spies the familiar label. He closes his fingers around it and whips around, almost hitting Ian in the face. “Found it!”

“Oh. Good.” Ian grins and kisses his cheek as he grabs Mickey’s hand. “Come on then.” He drags Mickey back into the bedroom and towards the bed, both of them tripping over their own feet and each other’s. “I’m glad I didn’t have to kill you.”

Mickey pushes him into the blankets and immediately hooks one of Ian’s legs over his shoulder. “Who would have done this then, hmm?” He grins, and leans down into Ian, pushing his leg up into his chest and making Ian groan as Mickey kisses him. He sucks Ian’s tongue into his mouth as he pops the cap on the lube and squeezes some into his hand. He rubs the lube between his fingers to warm it slightly and then trails his hand down, tracing one finger around Ian’s rim, still wet and open from his tongue.

“Hurry up!” Ian whines, and then gasps when Mickey slides a finger inside, pushing against the muscle and stretching it. “Two, two now…” he breathes.

“Be patient—I don’t want to hurt you,” Mickey chastises.

Ian gives him a ‘look’, that one that says ‘I adore you but you’re an idiot’. “I’m not going to break, you dummy.”

“Not taking chances,” Mickey mumbles, but he still slides his finger out and replaces it with two on the next stroke, scissoring them inside Ian’s body and making him throw his head back and shiver. He moves slowly, focusing more on the stretching than pleasuring—he wants this to last as long as they can hold it. His thumb brushes around Ian’s rim, stretched around his fingers, and Ian digs his heel into Mickey’s back, forcing him in close for a kiss. Ian’s nails scratch lightly at Mickey’s back, and Mickey hopes he leaves marks. He wants to be able to feel them later, turn around and see the red scratches on his skin in the mirror as a reminder that this is happening, this is real—they’ve made it.

“Three, do three,” Ian orders breathlessly, and Mickey withdraws his hand only to tuck his third finger in and slip back in. Each little breathy noise of enjoyment Ian makes jolts from Mickey’s ears straight to his cock, and he blinks hard, trying to calm himself down. He fans his fingers out, and Ian jolts. “Oh fuck…” He shoves Mickey away and unslings his leg, forcing Mickey’s hand out. Mickey falls back, and Ian throws himself at him, attacking his mouth and kissing Mickey until he can barely breathe.

“Sit…sit up against the headboard,” he whispers, and Mickey obeys, crawling up towards the head of the bed and laughing when Ian smacks his ass lightly and complains, “You’re slow.”

“You’re bossy!” Mickey flips over and leans back against the headboard, opening his arms. Ian shrugs one shoulder and smiles.

“Well, I didn’t have control over my own brain for a pretty long time. I guess it’s nice to have something I can control, if that makes sense.”

“Of course it does.” Mickey reaches out to pull Ian toward him, and their cocks brush together as Ian surges into his lap to kiss him—they both shudder at the sensation. Ian reaches over and snags the condom off of the blankets, rips it open, and works it down onto Mickey’s cock with gentle motions. Mickey feels dizzy at the touch. “Okay…okay…lube?”

“Got it.” Ian presents the bottle in his hand before squeezing some into his own hand and moving it down to Mickey’s cock, trapped between them. He runs his hand up and down Mickey’s length, coating him with the cool substance, and then wipes his hand on the sheets. He presses their foreheads together, eyes closed, and Mickey is suddenly very grateful they’re doing this in the full light of the sun, so he can make out every nuance of Ian’s expression—they flicker of his eyelashes, the slight upward twitch of his mouth and the flush of his skin.

“You’re beautiful,” he hears himself whisper, and Ian opens his eyes and wrinkles his nose.

“Smooth talker.” He pulls his head away and grasps Mickey’s shoulders, lifting himself up and positioning himself in Mickey’s lap, hovering above his cock. “A little help?”

Mickey nods and grabs his cock, holding it still and watching as Ian sinks down onto it, muscles in his thighs jumping as, inch by inch, he moves until Mickey is fully inside him.

Mickey has forgotten what this felt like, but, God, he’s certain it never felt quite like this—this intimacy, this passion that comes from being with someone he loves so much. Ian is so tight, and warm around him, and Mickey lets his head fall back against the bed and moans as Ian braces his grip on  Mickey’s shoulders and pushes himself up, and then drops back down. Every nerve in his body is tingling, right down to his fingertips, and he grabs onto Ian’s hips and helps him move, setting a steady pace.

“Oh…fuck…you feel so good…” Ian whispers, leaning over and panting into Mickey’s neck. He sinks down onto Mickey’s cock once more and shifts his hips experimentally. Mickey sucks in breathe between his teeth and squeezes Ian’s hips as the movement jolts through him. Ian does it again, and whimpers, fingernails biting into Mickey’s skin. Mickey is pretty sure Ian just found his prostate. He nudges Ian up half an inch and then slams his hips up into him, and Ian jerks, whispering, “Fuck,” into the hollow of Mickey’s throat. He lifts himself up and drops down at the same instant Mickey bucks up once more, and they both moan with pleasure, hands beginning to shake. The sun slants off of the sweaty skin of Ian’s chest, making him shine as they begin to settle into a pattern, and his face is lit with a smile even as he gasps and shakes, Mickey’s cock sliding inside him with every move as each thrust drives him deeper and deeper into Ian’s body.

There’s no breath for talking, not anymore. Ian’s legs begin to tremble as he grows more and more exhausted, but he keeps moving, never stilling or slowing. He locks eyes with Mickey for a moment before another thrust has him throwing his head back and biting his lip to contain the sound. Mickey migrates his hands from Ian’s hips to his ass, squeezing and pulling his cheeks apart further and pushing his cock even harder into Ian’s body.

Ian swears again, and his motions start to falter, getting faster and more erratic, until suddenly he’s opening his mouth in a silent cry, his come spattering between them. He moves one hand from Mickey’s shoulder and begins stroking up and down his cock, working through his orgasm until the trembling has stopped. The feeling of his muscles pulsating around Mickey almost drives him over as well, and he can feel the rush starting in the pit of his stomach as Ian breathes deeply and looks at him with hooded eyes. “Keep going.”

“What?”

“Keep going, fuck me, come on…”

“Okay.” Mickey wraps his arms around Ian and thumps them down so Ian is on his back, legs in the air. Mickey pulls back until his cock has almost slipped out of Ian’s ass, and then slams back in, jerking his hips wildly as he tries to come. Ian is writhing beneath him, fisting his hands in the blankets and then in Mickey’s hair, and he must be so oversensitive right now, but he’s still whispering, “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey,” under his breath and dragging Mickey towards him with his legs wrapped around Mickey’s thighs. Ian’s hands find their way to his ass, and with one gentle swipe of a finger down his crack to his hole, Mickey’s coming, shouting and collapsing on top of Ian, who pets the sweaty, sticky skin of his back and whispers soft, meaningless phrases as Mickey comes down.

They stay like that, Ian’s come drying between them and sticking them together, and it’s gross, yes, but Mickey loves it. He absolutely loves it.

 

They shower together, scrubbing each other clean with loofahs and using up all of Mickey’s watermelon scented body wash. When the bottle is almost empty, Ian fills it with water and squirts bubbles at Mickey, drawing on his back with shampoo and washing it clean. Mickey works shampoo into Ian’s hair with gentle hands, and when he rinses it away, not a single hair falls down to the bottom of the tub. Ian kisses him, in the warm stream of water, and Mickey kisses him back. When they get out, Ian walks over to where the mirror is foggy with steam, and carefully draws a heart, and etches ‘I+M’ right in the center and grins at Mickey. They dress each other, Ian in Mickey’s sweatshirt and a pair of boxers, and Mickey in sweatpants, and strip the bed, bundling the sheets and replacing them with fresh ones.

They order pizza, and sit in the living room cross-legged on the floor eating it, with a Friends marathon playing in the background. Afterwards, they wash their dishes in the sink and retreat back to the bedroom, falling onto the bed and cuddling up into each other’s arms. Ian is the first to fall asleep, and Mickey follows soon after, and he’s pretty sure this was one of the most amazing days of his life.

 

Maya wakes them up with a sharp knocking on the door. “Should I assume I’m sleeping alone on the couch tonight?”

Ian groans and rubs at his eyes before stretching his arms above his head languorously. “Yep,” he calls. “Goodnight Maya.”

“’Night.” Mickey can hear her footsteps echoing down the hall, and after a few minutes, the sound of the television starting up. Ian hums and cuddles into his chest.

“How are you?” he asks, batting his lashes at Mickey.

“Amazing.” Mickey kisses the tip of his nose. “And you?”

“Same.”

They lie there and listen to the sound of what seems to be some sort of modeling show, and Mickey loses himself in the way Ian’s thumb is stroking over his shoulder. Eventually, the television turns off, and there’s only silence, but for the distant sound of beeping cars and sirens.

“Mickey?” Ian murmurs, leaning in and nuzzling their noses. “You love me, right?”

“With everything,” Mickey whispers back, catching Ian’s wrist and pressing a kiss to the hot skin of his palm.

“And you waited for me,” Ian continues, moving his other hand to wrap around Mickey’s shoulder. “Right?”

“I did, yes,” Mickey replies, blinking. “Why?” He shuffles closer under the covers, moves so his hands can cup Ian’s waist and pull him closer.

Ian doesn’t meet his eyes. “Would,” he croaks, before clearing his throat and trying to turn away. Mickey doesn’t let him—he grips him tighter, forces him to stay pressed up against his body.

“Hey what is it?”

Ian sighs, and closes his eyes before pressing their foreheads together. “Would you give up if I asked you to wait just a few more months?”

Mickey frowns, studying Ian’s face, so close he has to be nearly cross-eyed to see. “Why?”

Ian’s hands move to Mickey’s hips, holding him. “Because when I come back, it will be for the rest of my life. It won’t be for a year or two of dating before a mutual break-up, or a three month fling that neither of took seriously that ends in disaster.” He bites at his bottom lip worriedly. “It will be me needing to be with you forever. As in…I’d marry you on the spot. I know that you’re that one person and I don’t have to search anymore.” His eyes flicker open, and catch on Mickey’s. “But I never thought I’d be alive to even have that chance. And ever since…ever since running away, I’ve been so…so lost, Mickey, you have no idea. And now that I know that I’m not just going to die…I need just a few months, on my own, to remember who I am again. Does…does that make sense?”

“So…” Mickey props himself up on one elbow. “This afternoon…you knew you were going to leave?” That hurts, more than he thinks it should. Is every touch now Ian counting down to the last, every kiss closer to none at all? Was what they’d done Ian’s way of saying goodbye, when Mickey had interpreted it as a hello, and a promise? How many times can expect him to…

“No,” Ian whispers. “Because I don’t know what your answer is yet.”

Mickey cuts the rant off in his head, and frowns at Ian, confused. “What?”

“Because if you’d give up, I won’t leave. I won’t leave ever again if it means keeping you.” Ian stares at him, eyes flashing in the dying light of the sun.

Mickey flops back down to the pillows and takes Ian’s face in his palms. “But you…you need to remember who you are…you need to do that…”

“I need you more,” Ian chokes out, and Mickey surges forward to crush their lips together.

“I love you …” Mickey breathes against his mouth, kissing him again and again. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait years…”

“I know,” Ian whispers. “And when I come back, I’ll be able to love you too, completely. But I feel like I can’t even say I love you right now without it sounding like a lie because I don’t know what exactly ‘I’ means anymore.”

Mickey feels the lump rise in his throat and tries to blink back the tears. He pulls back and strokes a hand down Ian’s cheek. “How long, do you think?”

“It’s just February now,” Ian tells him. “I think…May. I’ll be back in May.”

“Okay.” Mickey pulls him close, tries to memorize the feeling of Ian’s body against his. “Okay.”

“Maybe when I come back home, we can go to Ohio?” Ian asks hopefully. “I’d like to see my dad again.”

“We can do anything,” Mickey whispers. “Anything at all.”

Ian smiles, and rolls them over so he’s lying on Mickey’s chest, chin propped up on his hands. “Anything?”

“That’s right.”

“Spend the rest of our lives together?”

“That most of all.”

 

Ian leaves two days later, slipping away in the early hours of the morning. Maya sleeps through it on the couch, completely unaware—Ian has entrusted Mickey with a letter to give to her, explaining it all. He’s not sure where he’s going, he tells Mickey, only that he needs to go, and that he’ll be alright. Mickey still forces him to take his debit card. Ian’s a dreamer and the world needs those in order to thrive, but the dreamers also need those people who will pick them up and dust them off when they fall.

Mickey walks him downstairs to the lobby, and holds him tight. “I’ll miss you.”

Ian smiles sadly and kisses him. “I’ll miss you too. More than you can understand. But when I get back, I’ll be better. I’ll…I’ll be able to treat you the way you deserve to be treated. And everything will be wonderful.”

“I’ll still miss you though.” Mickey wraps his arms around Ian a little tighter, as if that could prevent him from leaving. But Mickey’s doesn’t actually want to stop him, not at all. He knows why Ian needs to do this, knows that he would have done the exact same thing or else something much stupider if the roles had been reversed, but that doesn’t stop his heart from aching. Ian takes his face in his hands and kisses him, hard, sliding his tongue between Mickey’s lips and sighing into it. Mickey shuts his eyes and tries to commit every detail to memory, so he can somehow make it through these next couple of months alone. He’s pretty sure Ian is doing the same thing.

When they finally break apart, Ian shivers and rests their foreheads together, arms twined tight around Mickey’s shoulders. Mickey rubs his hands up and down Ian’s back, fitting to his curves and lines. “And you promise you’ll be back?” he asks, voice coming out much softer than he’d hoped.

Ian glances up at him through his eyelashes, and sighs, a small smile lighting on his lips as his fingers play with the curls at the nape of Mickey’s neck.

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading lovelies  
> Let me know what you think :)  
> Much love!
> 
> Credit to letters_of_stars  
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


	16. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it.

Mickey is frying vegetables over the stove when Maya comes home. “Hey,” she calls from the hallway, and strolls into view, tossing her jacket over the chair and bounding up to him. “What are you making?”

“Pasta,” he answers, gesturing at the pot boiling in the other corner of the stove.

“Gross,” she says, and Mickey reaches over his shoulder to whack her. She dances back and glares at him. “Hitting a lady?”

“You’re no lady,” Mickey tells her with a smirk, and she flips him off coolly before grabbing a kitchen chair and straddling it. “How was work?”

“Ugh.” She drops her forehead into her hands. “You would not believe the number of assholes I have to deal with on a daily basis.”

“You work as a receptionist.”

“Exactly. Travel agents are dicks.” She studies the nails on her left hand. “Seriously. They all act like you only worse.”

“Thanks Maya.”

“Hey, no problem. I’m gonna change.” She stands up, and dances forward a few steps to press a kiss to Mickey’s cheek before darting away.

Mickey finishes frying the vegetables, and smiles when he hears Maya’s singing drifting over from the other room.

It’s getting somewhat easier, living like this. He learns Maya the same way he learned Ian, and she learns him back, that special language of small gestures and eyebrow twitches. Small touches, tangles of arms and legs and laughter.

Some days, it’s even alright to talk about Karen. It’s okay for Maya to talk about the woman she went on a date with last Friday—some girl named Simone—and talk about how it’s okay for her to get out and experiment for the first time since high school. Other days, Maya can ask about Ian, can ask about Mickey’s family, and it doesn’t hurt, not so much, because he knows Ian is coming back for him, and his parents try.

Mickey moves over to stir the pasta. It reminds him of the first time he cooked with Ian, back on Darling Place. He remembers when Ian told him about the god Hephaestus and his fall to Lemnos. Cast down from Olympus only to be nursed back to health.

He wonders where Ian is now.

Because of course with every good day, there are the days where every thought of Ian makes Mickey feel sick to his stomach with worry, where the mention of Karen sends Maya off into the bathroom for hours on end on the pretense of doing her nails, when Mickey really knows she’s crying. And when those days happen, that careful friendship they’re building seems to shake, and the cracks reappear, highlighting just how incredibly fragile this entire things really is. The cracks that Ian managed to cover up, dangerous.

Mickey can never be sure what kind of day it is.

Those times when they’re both lonely are the worst. Then, even though they might sit by side, they might as well be all alone in the universe, and nothing can bring them back.

 

Tonight, with Maya singing as she changes into sweatpants and Mickey channeling his energy into cooking, is a night when they’re both marginally okay, or at least as okay as they can be. Mickey is sure that’s why Maya brings it up.

“It’s May,” she says, not glancing up from her plate.

“I know.” Mickey scoops some more salad into his bowl and adds the dressing.

“He said he’d be back in May,” she reminds him.

“I know that too.”

“When…”

Mickey sets the container of dressing down on the table and manages a half-smile, the one that seems harder and harder to find each day. “It’s only the first of the month. He has time.”

There aren’t any other options.

 

A week later, and Ian still has time. Maya comes homes from a date with Simone, and finds Mickey sitting on the couch in his pajamas staring into nothing. He’s doing that more and more lately.

“Hi,” Maya greets him, slinging off her purse and leaning over the back of the couch. She smiles weakly at Mickey, who grunts back. She sighs, pulling her hair back from her face and swiping at the few strands that have gotten stuck to her lip-gloss. “You miss him a lot, don’t you?”

“I love him,” Mickey replies. That’s all the answer he should need to give.

Maya goes quiet for a few minutes, and then asks, “What happens if he comes back and we’re not here?”

Mickey shrugs. “He has a spare key. He can let himself in.”

“Just making sure,” she whispers, leans over, and brushes a soft kiss to his forehead. She walks away, gone to take a shower and wash the feel of Simone’s kisses from her face, or maybe not. Maybe she’ll carefully wash around them. Mickey wishes it worked like that, so he could still feel the tingle of Ian’s lips against his skin.

He shuts his eyes and remembers how Ian’s arms had felt wrapped around him, keeping him safe and warm and loved. It’s not the same though. Never the same.

Maya comes back into the room about twenty minutes later. She’s dressed in her nightgown now, or rather the overlarge t-shirt she calls a nightgown, and her hair hangs wet down her shoulders. “Mickey, I kind of need the couch.”

He doesn’t want to move though. Getting up and moving to his own bed is far too much effort. Especially when his bed no longer smells of Ian—his shampoo, his cheap moisturizer, his skin—and Mickey grows so lonely at night now.

Maya studies him for a moment, and then pats the side of his leg. “Stand up. I need to pull the bed out.” Mickey sighs and stands off to the side, reaching out to help her tug the bed out of the couch and straighten the blankets. Maya fluffs the pillows and clambers onto the bed. She leans back against the couch and beckons Mickey. “Come on. You can sleep here tonight.”

Mickey stares at her with surprise for only a moment before climbing in beside her. Maya lies down and tangles her legs with his, tucks her head under his chin. She’s warm, and supple, and her breath flutters against his collarbone with every push and pull of her lungs. In the morning they’ll return to their normal level of comfort, but for tonight, they’re both pretending that the person holding them is someone else entirely, so that’s alright.

 

A few days later, Maya calls Karen up, and retreats into the bathroom and shuts the door. Mickey busies himself with baking cookies, and doesn’t look up when Maya shuffles back into the living room. She comes up behind him and watches him press the little metal cookie cutters into the dough, leaving little shapes of flowers and hearts behind.

“You are…like…really gay,” she says after a while.

“So are you,” he replies. “But I don’t see you making flower cookies.”

“Are you trying to get me to bake?”

‘”More making a point about stereotypes to be honest.”

“Oh.” She moves to the counter and hops on up to sit on it. She thumps her feet against the cupboards, a little louder when Mickey doesn’t glance over. He smiles gently to himself.

“So, how was your talk with Karen?”

“Oh, you know…uneventful,” she replies immediately, though her tone is carefully nonchalant. “Yeah, we just talked…”

One day, Mickey might be able to get her to talk to him without constant prompting. But now, he presses the cookie cutter into the dough, making another flower. “What did you talk about?”

“I…told her I’m seeing someone,” Maya mutters, studying her nails, as if this is no big deal, but Mickey knows it is.

“And how did she react?”

Maya frowns, and crosses her legs, folding up into herself. “She was happy for me,” she whispers. “Totally happy.”

Mickey pauses in his cookie-cutting, and leans heavily on the counter. What can you do when the person you’re in love with is happy and supportive when they learn you’re trying to move on?

Is that a final goodbye? Mickey isn’t sure.

He sees Maya turn her head away and swallow hard, eyelashes flickering rapidly. Mickey remembers the time when he thought he might be falling out of love with Ian, and wonders if that’s how she’s feeling right now. Not only heartbroken that her loved one failed her, but heartbroken that love in itself failed.

“Come help me bake cookies,” he says, reaching out to squeeze her knee. She turns to smile at him, eyes already rimmed with red. Sometimes cookies are the only solution.

 

The following Friday, Mickey goes out with Iggy and Joey. He doesn’t drink, not a single sip, because he knows that if he has one drink it will be too easy to have two, then three, five, seven, and then just drink until he forgets his own name. A year and a half ago, that would have been his goal. But now he has someone to wait for.

Iggy and Joey don’t ask many questions, and he appreciates it. All they know is that Ian is gone, he should be back soon, and Mickey is pretty sure they’ve picked up on the fact that he’s living with a female. The way Maya had bitched them out for letting in a draft while she was walking around wrapped in a towel after her shower should have been a clue, at least.

He’ll tell them everything, later, once he knows everything himself, once he’s had time to sit down and plot it all out in his head since the beginning. He just needs some time.

Ian needed time as well, time to remember who he is. But now he’s running out of it.

Mickey quits his job. He gives two weeks notice, and waits out the days. He doesn’t know where he’s going after this, only that he needs to go. He can’t stand the numbers anymore. Every hour towards his two weeks seems to drag on longer and longer, the numbers filling up his head and jostling around until he can barely think of anything else. When Maya stays the night with Simone without calling, Mickey spends the entire time pacing the apartment floor, and even tries to file a missing person’s report before the officer he talks to tells him to wait a little longer. Maya slips back in the door the next morning, like an errant teenager, and Mickey is right there, waiting in the kitchen with his sixth cup of tea.

“Jesus!” she gasps, throwing her purse down on the couch when she spots him sitting there. “Mickey, what the fuck?”

“You need to call me when you’re not coming home!” he snaps, not looking up from his mug.

“You’re not my dad!” She rolls her eyes and starts to head towards the bedroom.

“No, but I still need to look after you!” he protests, standing up and scurrying after her in his slippers and bathrobe.

“No, you don’t actually! I can take care of myself!” she tells him airily, clinging to the doorframe of the bedroom.

“But…”

She whirls around and pokes an accusing finger into his chest. “Do I look like Ian? Just because he’s not coming back doesn’t mean you get to follow me around instead!”

Mickey stops, stills, and tries to breathe. He takes a slow step backwards, staring at Maya as she realizes what she’s said. Her eyes close, and her shoulders slump in defeat. “Shit, sorry,” she whispers.

“He’s coming back! He is!” Mickey chokes out, and he turns and stomps back to the kitchen, where he brews another pot of tea. It doesn’t help much, but at least the repetitive swallowing motion keeps the sobs from clawing their way up his throat.

 

When Maya gets home that night, she goes straight to the bedroom, where Mickey is curled up under his covers. He’s been there since he got home himself, from another day of dizzying numbers. Maya perches on the edge of the mattress and reaches out to pat the small of his back beneath the blankets that don’t smell like Ian, not at all anymore. “Mickey,” she says, “We need to talk.”

When he pokes his head out from under the blankets, she’s wearing that odd, soft smile that makes her look so different. That smile that only appears every once in a while, the one that used to flash across her face when she talked to Ian.

“What?” he asks, knowing he sounds petulant and revelling in it.

She sighs, and hooks her hair behind her ear. “I’ve seen Ian disappear before.”

“Well, he isn’t this time. He promised,” Mickey argues, “He promised he’d be back.” He holds the covers tighter around himself and tries to keep in the warmth.

“He’s promised things before that he couldn’t do,” she murmurs, reaching up to smooth the collar of Mickey’s shirt. “Sometimes people just can’t keep their promises, no matter how much they want to.”

“No.” Mickey shakes his head, nose twitching and eyes burning. “He wouldn’t leave me.”

“Mickey.” She moves her hand to his cheek, thumb stroking against the wet skin of his cheek. “Ian is used to leaving people.” She smiles weakly at him, the corners of her mouth barely twitching up even as she raises her other hand to wipe the tears veiling the deep brown of her eyes. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

He doesn’t want to admit that he thinks she might be right.

 

Mickey goes home early on Friday—sometime around ten a headache had begun building up behind his eyes, and by lunchtime he is struggling to hold down his sandwich. The television is playing when he opens the door to his apartment, some black and white program that Mickey can’t be bothered with identifying as he stumbles towards the kitchen for some aspirin. He finds the bottle in the cupboard and gulps down two of the pills with a glass of water, and goes to shut off the television. He clutches his head and shuffles into the bedroom. It’s dark, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, and a mess—Mickey hasn’t bothered to clean for the last week or two, so he has clothes strewn everywhere, drawers open, and the blankets on his bed are a tangled heap. He can’t be bothered with it right now though. He troops straight into the bathroom for a hot shower and drops his shirt and pants on the floor, not bothering about the wrinkles. Mickey turns the water on, letting the steam fog up the mirror and fill the room. Instantly, he can feel the stress lifting off his shoulders, and he steps under the stream of water, letting the heat and steam clear his head. The water runs down his shoulders, his back, his thighs, washing away the everyday dirt and aches from sitting in a chair for so long. He turns his face into the stream and shuts his eyes tight, holding his breath and letting the water blast against his skin. It’s an escape, like this, completely enveloped by the feel and the sound and Mickey wishes he could stay like this forever.

But soon the lack of oxygen begins to burn in his lungs, and he tears his head away, sucks in breath out of the steam. He fumbles for the faucet and shuts off the water, standing there for a moment and letting the drips run down his body. Slowly, the ringing in his ears recedes, and he reaches out to grab his towel and rub it through his hair. He wraps the towel around his waist and steps out of the shower.

Mickey studies his face in the misted mirror, prodding at the dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping well. He sighs, and opens the door, skin prickling when the cool air of the bedroom invades the warmth of the bathroom, and turns off the light. He heads toward the bed, intending to flop straight down into the rumpled pillows and sleep until Maya comes home.

But there’s already someone in his bed.

Mickey’s heart skips wildly for a minute as he just stands and stares, and then it settles as he forces himself to breathe.

Ian looks so, so incredibly young, eyes closed and face slack with sleep. He looks better now, more filled out in the cheeks, more color in his skin, the bags under his eyes less noticeable. His hair—or what Mickey can see of it—is growing back nicely too, Mickey notices. He’s huddled in the blankets, curled up into himself, with the covers pulled up and over his head, which explains why Mickey didn’t notice him before.

But the thing that does grab Mickey’s attention is the small smile gracing his lips, even as he sleeps. He never had that before.

Before he left. But now he’s back.. He came back. He actually came back.

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, nose twitching and throat tightening. He feels his fingers trembling uselessly at his sides, and balls them into fists, fighting not to break into tears.

Ian came home.

He doesn’t know what he should do, but he knows what he needs. He just needs to feel him, remember the touch of his skin, the shape of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the sound of his breathing and the smell of his hair, reassure himself that Ian is there and not just some twisted fragment of Mickey’s imagination. Quietly, Mickey moves to the other side of the bed, throws the towel on the floor, and lifts the blankets to allow himself under. He lies down next to Ian, trying not to jostle him, but the mattress shifts towards him. Ian stirs, and rolls over, pressing himself into Mickey’s chest. Bare skin to bare skin. Warmth. Mickey hadn’t noticed how cold he’s been.

Slowly, Ian’s mouth opens in a grin, and his hands move up to Mickey’s chest. Mickey catches his hand in his own, squeezes tight, and swallows down the ache in his throat. His vision blurs at the edges, hot tears gathering. Ian cracks one eye open, bright blue between the fan of his lashes.

“Hey Dapper Dan,” he whispers, thumb stroking across Mickey’s chest fondly. “I promised you I’d be back.”

“You did,” Mickey agrees in a choked mutter, reaching up a hand to stroke down Ian’s cheek. And suddenly he realizes how stupid it was to ever doubt it.

Ian came back for him.

“Where…where were you? Are you okay?” Mickey looks down, searching for injuries he might not have seen.

Ian hums. “I’m fine.” He forces Mickey’s chin up. “I got in contact with a friend I met when I first got to New York. She offered me a couch. I was safe.” He tilts his head a little from side to side and smiles. “I’ve been looking into colleges. I think I want to go.”

“You can be an art teacher, right?” Mickey whispers, swallowing hard.

“Yes.” Ian closes his eyes once more and snuggles into Mickey’s chest, as if this is any other day, as if this is normal. “Hey Mickey?” he murmurs, voice rough.

Mickey presses a soft kiss to the top of his head. “Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Mickey bites back his lower lip and clutches Ian to him, as if that will prevent him from ever leaving Mickey’s sight again, so he can hear those words over and over and over again, the ‘I’ finally and ‘I’ because Ian has found himself again, the love so much more than silly little fling he could have imagined in his teenage years. He sucks in breath and tries to answer back. “I lo…”

“No. Shh…” Ian cuts him off. “My turn.” Stops the words.

Like he doesn’t even need to hear them to know that they’re true.

He tilts his head up and catches Mickey’s lips in a gentle kiss. “You spent so much time loving me when I couldn’t love you back. And you never left.” He kisses him again. His fingertips are warm against Mickey’s chest, his leg slotting back perfectly between Mickey’s own. “You were just…always there, even when I didn’t want you. And…and it’s funny because I didn’t even realize it at the time but…” He smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, so much brighter than Mickey remembers. “I just…want to spend the rest of my life loving you. I want to…cook breakfast with you in the mornings, and sleep with you every night.” He shrugs, like this is nothing big, not a struggle, and Mickey realizes that it isn’t.

Ian could never say it before. But now the words come tumbling from his mouth. “I want to memorize the feel of your body, and I want to learn how to make you laugh. I want to force a smile at all your stupid jokes and I want to have huge arguments sometimes, because I’ll still love you even when I want to punch you in the face.” He casts his face down, and tucks his head into Mickey’s neck. “I want…I want to be as good to you as you were to me, I want to deserve you, I want to dream with you and I want to make those dreams reality with you,” he whispers in one long breath, and kisses the juncture of his jaw and neck. “But most of all, I want to be here to tell you that I love you every day for the rest of my life.”

Mickey shuts his eyes and feels the drip of tears down his cheeks. He’s cried so much in the past few months, and he remembers when he couldn’t cry at all. He’s learned how, learned how to feel those emotions again, the ones that leave him feeling crippled inside, and the ones that make him whole  again. He breathes in, memorizing the feel of Ian in his arms, the scent of his hair, the warmth he exudes.

“Mick? Are you okay?” Ian asks.

“I-I-I…” he manages. “I just really, really love you, is all.”

“I love you too,” Ian whispers, and he snuggles further into Mickey’s arms. He kisses Mickey’s shoulder. “It feels good to be home.”

 

It’s late the next morning when Mickey wakes. He stretches out on the empty bed, buries his face in Ian’s pillow, and reminds himself that it’s not a dream. Ian’s home. He’s home, and Mickey is going to be alright.

When he tiptoes into the living room, dressed in a baggy pair of sweatpants, Maya has already left for work, and Ian is frying eggs in the kitchen, singing quietly to himself. He’s wearing one of Mickey’s t-shirts, and Mickey can see how the past few months have healed him. He fills out his body now, broad shoulders and strong legs and bright smile when he turns toward Mickey.

Mickey remembers learning about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, and how self-actualization remained that nearly impossible goal, the full realization of one’s potential. But, watching Ian move toward him, healthy and happy and his, Mickey begins to wonder just how close they’ve come to it.

Ian kisses him softly, and leads him over to the sofa. “Let me take care of you,” he says, and dances back to the kitchen, laughing as he goes. Mickey watches him as he makes the tea, finishes the eggs, pops the toast. They sit side by side on the couch, and Ian tells him about the colleges he’s looking into, the jobs he might apply for. Mickey tells Ian that he wants to help people. He doesn’t know how yet, just that he does, and Ian kisses him again, tasting of tea and sugar.

“Maybe a social worker?” Ian suggests. “I think you’d be good at that.”

“Maybe,” Mickey answers, turning the suggestion around in his head. “Maybe.”

They shower together, warm water and soap bubbles and laughter, and Ian carefully redraws his heart on the mirror when he sees Mickey glance at it. I+M. They dry each other off with fluffy towels and leave the towels lying somewhere on the bedroom floor when they collapse on the bed in a flurry of kisses.

Mickey carefully memorizes the way Ian feels inside him, the taste of that spot beneath his earlobe, and the moans he makes when he comes, soft and almost silent as he shudders above Mickey and falls into him. He imbeds the feel of his skin against Mickey’s, and the salt of his sweat under Mickey’s lips. And when Ian pulls out and off to go take another shower, Mickey watches the curves and lines of his body in the sun, and burns the images into his eyes as well.

When Ian comes back, Mickey is sitting up on the edge of the bed, watching him pick the towel up off the floor and slide it down his limbs.

“This is like a fairytale,” Mickey whispers to himself. Ian’s head snaps up at the words, and he smiles softly.

“Is it?”

“Yes. Straight out of the stories.”

Ian straightens, and places the towel in the laundry hamper before moving back towards the bed. He clasps his hands behind his back and smiles cheekily. “And will you be my knight, Mickey Milkovich?” He stops a few feet from Mickey, cocking his head to one side in mock thoughtfulness. “Pull me up onto your great white stallion and carry me away to magnificent castles and far-off lands?” He leans forward, places his hands on Mickey’s knees, and stares at him through the dark shade of his eyelashes. “Will you save me?”

Mickey shifts his weight back, dances his fingers against Ian’s hands, shrugs, shakes his head. “No,” he replies softly. Ian raises his eyebrows quizzically.

“Oh?” He kneels down on the ground, tilting his head up and studying Mickey.

Mickey smiles, that easy smile he’d forgotten how to use, tips forward, and presses their foreheads together. “I won’t save you,” he murmurs, “Because I know you can save yourself. I’ll just be waiting patiently at the castle when you’re done.”

Ian laughs, eyes bright with sunlight, and latches his arms around Mickey’s shoulders. “Really?”

“Really.”

They kiss, and Mickey finally knows what forever tastes like.

 

Two months later…

 

It’s the time of year in Chicago when most people hole up indoors, keeping blinds shut and windows closed in an attempt to ward off the heat, when children find relief in sprinklers and the cool drip of cherry popsicle melting on their faces, and the birds begin chirping so early in the morning it’s not unusual to be awakened at four by the squawking and singing outside of windows. The streets are mostly abandoned of cars, filled instead with small children testing out bikes for the first time, or playing basketball in the driveways of houses, and only the occasional homeowner out watering the plants or watching the children from the shade of a porch betrays that the town has any adults at all. That, and the two men seated in the parked car at the side of the road, sticky with sweat and trying to shield  themselves from the sun that leaks through the windows, watching the figure move around the mechanic’s garage down the way.

Clayton Gallagher appears older than Ian claims he is, face lined with the years and back hunched as he stomps around the shop, running his hands over the stilled engines of the cars like a doctor with a patient. He has the face of a man who has gone through too much too early—a man who lost his first wife, something that he never should have had to experience, and then lost his son in a different way just a few years later. There’s a resemblance there, between him and Ian, in that weariness. But more than that—the obstinate expression on his face is something Mickey is growing very used to on Ian’s own. No one gets the Gallaghers down, Ian had told him, and Mickey sees where he got it from.

He turns back to Ian, hunched down low in the seat of the rental car, staring at his father with wide eyes. “You ready?”

“Few more minutes,” Ian croaks, fiddling with his collar nervously. Mickey reaches over and smooths it back down. Ian was saying a few more minutes an hour and a half ago. Mickey keeps thinking that at some point Clayton has to wonder why a rental car has been sitting down the street for two hours with two people inside, but the man seems entirely focused on his work, sort of the way Ian gets when he’s painting.

“It’s almost five,” he says softly, trailing his hand from Ian’s collar down his arm. Ian grabs hold of his hand and laces their fingers together, bringing their hands up to his mouth and kissing Mickey’s knuckles, one at a time.

“I know. I know.”

“Hey.” Mickey clucks him under the chin and leans in for a quick kiss. “You can do this. Heck, you met my parents two days ago—the terrifying part is over.”

“I like your parents,” Ian protests gently, even as he chases Mickey’s mouth back up for another kiss.

“And they adored you,” Mickey chuckles, granting it to him. His parents had seemed completely infatuated with Ian, actually, once the whole story had come to light. His mother, of course, Mickey might have expected it from. He knew his letters to her had been evasive and probably maddening, and for her to finally meet Ian and find out who had been making her son act so differently had probably been a relief.

His father though. Mickey hadn’t told Ian—he was pretty sure he knew anyway—but he’d been terrified of how his father would react. And then Ian had just introduced himself with no trace of fear and held out a steady hand to be shaken.

And he’d started to talk.

From the beginning, he told them his side of the story.

For the first time, Mickey heard it too.

“I just wanted to find someone more miserable than me…”

Of course, not everything could be explained to Mickey’s parents, and Mickey listened as Ian carefully omitted and worked around those parts, but when Ian would glance over and meet his eyes, Mickey could fill it in for himself. Fill in the forgotten details, those parts that might not matter to anyone else but change so much for them.

That night, they lay tucked up into each other, a tangle of legs and arms and whispered promises, and Mickey realized just how much Ian loves him.

All this time, he’d been basing it all off of the idea that he loves Ian, and Ian has worked to love him back, and while that doesn’t make Ian’s love any less significant, he knows he’s always thought it, deep down, that he has to love Ian enough for both of them, just in case.

And he’s been so wrong, the entire time.

When he started to cry, and tries to apologize, Ian just laughs fondly and holds him closer and kisses his forehead.

“I have a lifetime to prove I love you,” he whispered, and the fact that Ian loves him and has a lifetime is almost too much to handle, even after two months of trying to fully realize it.

Now, Ian’s staring out the window again, and he squeezes Mickey’s hand so tight it hurts. “Shit, I think he’s closing up.”

“Do you want to go…” Mickey starts, and Ian groans in frustration.

“No…I can’t do that! He’s going home, I don’t want to make him late, that would be so weird…”

“Ian, baby…you’re seeing your dad for the first time eight years after you disappeared from your bed. It’s going to weird.” Ian glares at him and Mickey shrugs. “It’s true. Are you sure you don’t want to call him first, let him know…”

“No,” Ian says immediately. They’ve had this conversation before, and Mickey understands. By not calling and telling his father he’s coming home, Ian has an escape. If he really can’t do it, he’s not leaving Clayton waiting and disappointed once again. Mickey pats his hand with a shy smile and glances back to the shop. They watch Clayton lock up, and close the doors so they can’t see anything anymore. A few minutes later, a blue truck drives out from behind and starts off down the street.

They sit there after it leaves, silent. Finally, Ian looks over at Mickey and whispers, “Okay. I’m ready.”

They park down the street, and Mickey holds Ian’s hand tight as they approach the house. There are little pots of flowers in the driveway beside the truck, sitting beside bags of soil and some of the little black plastic flower holders, discarded on the cement. Ian stops and studies them for a long moment, before lifting his head and staring at the front door.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Mickey asks, “We can come back…”

“No. I need to,” Ian answers, and he walks up the step to the door. He lifts his hand, and knocks. Minutes later, the door edges open a few inches, and Mickey can see a man staring out at him, jaw dropped in shock. “Hi Dad,” Ian greets him, voice breathless as he stands rigid. Mickey reaches out and places a steadying hand in the small of his back.

When  Clayton Gallagher holds his runaway son in his arms for the first time in nearly ten years, Mickey realizes that the best fairytales aren’t the ones in storybooks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed Ian and Mickey being in this story as much as I did.  
> Just a reminder that the writing and amazing story is by letters_of_stars.  
> For the last time, much love!!
> 
>  
> 
> Original fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4288023/chapters/9713181


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